Simon looked up at her from under impenitently slanting brows.
"Are you insinuating that a man of my unparalleled purity—"
"You'll have to hurry if you want to catch her today," Patricia said practically. "Peter found out from one of the chauffeurs that they're starting back to London at five-thirty."
The Saint stood up restlessly.
"I think I'd better amble over," he said.
Again the Hirondel roared over the Anford road, and a few minutes later it swung to a grinding stop in the small courtyard in front of the Golden Fleece. As Simon stopped the engine and hitched his long legs over the side he glanced around for a glimpse of his confederates. The maternal laws of England being what they were, Hoppy must have been torn away from his second bottle about three hours ago, and it would be another half-hour before he would be allowed to return to it. Simon scanned the landscape for some likely place where the thirsty vigil might have been spent, and he became totteringly transfixed as his eyes settled on the window of an establishment on the opposite side of the road, next to the Assembly Rooms, over which ran the legend; Ye Village Goodie Shoppe.
Peter Quentin was stoically reading a magazine; but on the other side of the table, bulging over the top of a chocolate eclair, the frog-like eyes of Mr Uniatz ogled Simon through the plate glass with an indescribable expression of anguish and reproach that made the Saint turn hastily into the hotel entrance with his bones melting with helpless laughter.
The first person he saw was Valerie Woodchester herself. She was sitting alone on the arm of a chair in the lounge, smoking a cigarette and swinging one shapely leg disconsolately, but at the sight of him her face brightened.
"Oh, hullo," she said. "What's the matter?"
"Some things are too holy to talk about," said the Saint, sinking on to the chair opposite. "Never mind. Perhaps you can bring me back to earth. Are you always being left alone?"