“Stop acting the knight in armor,” he protested. “What in hell you talking about?”
“It should have been obvious before,” Simon Templar said. “Up on your feet, Holbrook.”
Holbrook remained at ease.
“If you’ve got an explanation for all this that doesn’t agree with mine, I want to know it.”
The Saint paused. There was honest curiosity in the man’s voice — and no fear. That cowardice which had characterized him before was replaced with what seemed an honest desire to hear the Saint’s idea.
“This girl,” the Saint said, “whoever she is, has breeding, grace, and beauty out of this world. She has been brought up under expensive and sheltered surroundings. You can see that in her every gesture, every expression. She was bred to great wealth, perhaps nobility, or even royalty.”
Big Bill leaned forward in almost an agony of concentration. Every word of Simon Templar’s might have been a twenty-dollar gold piece, the way he reached for it with every sense.
The Saint patted his jacket pocket.
“This jewel is the symbol of her position — heiress, princess, queen, or what have you. You and your unsavory companions kidnapped her, and are holding her for ransom. That would be wicked enough, but you’ve done worse. Somewhere in the course of your nasty little scheme, it seemed like a good idea to destroy a part of her beauty that could be dangerous to you and your precious pals. So you destroyed her mind. With drugs, I have no doubt — drugs that have dulled her mind until she has no memory. Your reasons are clear enough — it was just a sound form of insurance. And now your gang has split up, fighting over the spoils. I don’t know who would have come out on top, if you hadn’t happened to run into me. But I know what the end is going to be now — and you aren’t going to like it. Get on your feet!”
The command was like a pistol shot, and Big Bill Holbrook jumped. Then he leaned back again and chuckled in admiration.