Patricia Holm stood there.
“That’ll do it, Smith,” she said to a young man who carried a Speed Graphic.
She surveyed Simon with magnificent scorn.
The Saint was the picture of a man trying to disclaim any connection with the dress. He held it at arm’s length, between thumb and forefinger, and regarded it with astonishment, as if to say, “Now where in the world did that come from?”
Luella was frozen to a tinted statue. She stared at Pat and the photographer with boiled and unbelieving eyes. This sort of thing, her expression said, couldn’t happen. It was fully ten seconds before she thought to use her hands in the traditional manner of women caught without clothes.
“Now, dear,” Simon began in conciliatory tones, “I can explain—”
“Explain!” Patricia spat the word. “You can explain to the judge, Samuel Taggart. I’ve been a long time catching you with the goods... you, you...” Patricia choked, and her voice was awash in a bucketful of tears. “Oh, how could you, Sam? The boys, and—” She turned, covered her face with her hands, and her shoulders began to shake.
The Saint surveyed the grouping of the dramatis personae, through Mr Samuel Taggart’s eyeglasses, with an impresario’s appreciation, noting that to anyone in the living room only he and the lightly clad Luella would be visible through the open door.
A second flash bulb’s blinding glare knifed through his reflections.
“At last!” thundered Matthew Joyson, with the glibness of many past performances. “My lawyer will know how to use—”