“Did you see a kind of big dopey-lookin’ lug?” the jockey asked.
The Saint pointed to the other side of the clearing where the hill pitched down.
“He went that way — in a hell of a rush.”
“Thanks, pal.”
They were off, hot on the imaginary trail, and the sounds of their passage soon faded. The Saint went inside.
“They’ll be back,” he said. “But meanwhile we can clear up a few points. Could you down a brace of trout? They’ve probably cooled enough to eat.”
“What do you mean, they’ll be back?”
“It’s inevitable,” Simon pointed out as he put coffee on, set the table, and gathered cutlery. “They won’t find you. They want to find you. So they’ll be back with questions. Since those questions will be directed at me, I’d like to know what not to answer.”
“Who are you?”
“Who are you?” the Saint countered.