“That’s pretty damned sweet of you, Miss, uh, Luella—”
“Just plain Luella, Bill.”
“Okay, Luella. It’s swell of you, but I can’t let you do it. You’ve got to make a living.”
“Let me worry about that, Bill. I’ll just add it on to my next sale, to somebody who made his pile while you were out there on a Fortress.”
“If you put it like that — you’re sweet to do it, though.”
“It’s a pleasure — Bill.” Abruptly she became businesslike. “Finished? Then let’s go on up to my place and get the forms made out and signed.”
The Saint watched them go, not failing to note that Luella’s legs tapered to slim ankles which would have wrung a whistle from a real timber wolf.
“That’s quite a gal,” he observed, in a fatherly way.
“I noticed you taking in her personality,” retorted his lady. “Beautiful, weren’t they?”
Simon tossed her a sad sweet smile.