“Who are you going to give it to?” Simon protested.
“Probably to somebody who’s just being thrown out of the Roosevelt,” answered the manager philosophically, and added hastily, “but I don’t think it would help you to rush over there. They’ve certainly got somebody waiting who’s just being thrown out of the Ambassador.”
Patricia Holm, with her shining golden head at the Saint’s shoulder, brought her blue eyes into play.
“Isn’t there anything you could do,” she pleaded, “to let a couple of nice people into this private game of musical chambers?”
The man swooned but was helpless.
“If I could solve that one,” he said, “I wouldn’t have to work here.”
The Saint took her arm.
“Leave us drink some lunch,” he said, “and brood about life in this nation of nomads.”
The adjoining restaurant was cool and surprisingly quiet. They sat in a booth and ordered drinks. The Saint lighted cigarettes for them both.
“Well, old darling,” he said, “I suppose we could always get several reservations on the night train to San Francisco, and a lot more reservations on the train back. We could spend every second day there and every other day here, and live in a compartment. After a month, it’d be the same as spending two weeks in each place.”