Stratford Keane glowered at her despondently. “My dear, your innocence is equaled by nothing but your beauty. The only voice which has anything to say about the cast is the voice of the money which is backing the production, which happens to belong to Miss Freeman.”
“Shouldn’t you have said that it belonged to Rick Lansing?” Simon put in shrewdly.
Patricia turned to him with a tiny wrinkle forming between her brows.
“Miss Freeman’s latest husband,” Simon answered. “Better known to his business associates as Rick the Barber. Only it probably wouldn’t be tactful to mention that when she’s around.” He shifted his eyes. “Which means starting about now.”
He had seen enough advance publicity pictures of Iris Freeman to recognize her as she came towards the table. It would have been impossible in any event not to notice her, for the furs and jewels which trimmed a face and figure that could have attracted quite enough attention without any artificial adornment at all were obviously worn for the secondary function of practically forcing the observer to ask who they belonged to. And the unhesitating way in which her path was headed for Stratford Keane established a connection between them that was almost enough clue by itself.
“Stratford, darling!” she cried. “I was just betting Mark that we’d find you here as usual.”
“A feat of unparalleled perspicacity on your part,” said Keane. He struggled halfway to his feet, rocking the table dangerously. “May I present two dear friends of mine — Miss Patricia Holm and Mr Simon Templar. This is Miss Iris Freeman, whom I was just telling you about. And — er” — he winced slightly at the exquisitely tailored male who appeared from behind Miss Freeman’s patina—“Mr Belden.”
Iris Freeman’s beautiful dark eyes found Simon and grew wide and worshipful.
“Simon Templar?” she repeated. “You don’t mean — the Saint?”
Simon nodded resignedly. It was not always convenient to be identified so readily with the paradoxical alias under which his identity had once upon a time been concealed, but those days were pretty far in the past, and few people who read newspapers were unaware of the almost legendary career of brigandage which his name stood for. He was getting more used to it all the time, and certainly there was nothing much else to do except make the best of it. Which was not always so bad, either, especially when the vague associations of his name made beautiful women look at him in that excited and expectant way.