“I suppose if I had more practice I could take these situations in my stride,” said the Saint.
“You’ll do all right,” said Patricia. “Sign the paper and satisfy your adoring public.”
Simon took out a pen and scribbled his name.
“And you must draw the Saint figure,” Iris Freeman insisted. “It wouldn’t be complete without that.”
The Saint patiently sketched his trademark — the straight-line skeleton figure crowned with the conventional halo which had once been enough to give the most hardened citizens an uneasy qualm at the pit of their stomachs — and reflected that a lot of things had changed. Or had they?
“That’s simply wonderful,” Iris Freeman gushed. “You’ll never believe what a thrill this is for me. I only wish I could stay and talk to you for hours, but Mark and I have to run. How would you like to come to our rehearsal tomorrow?”
“He’d love to,” Patricia said firmly. “But I’m afraid he has another engagement.”
“Oh... I see.” The actress bit her lip. “Well, I’ll be sure and send you some tickets for the opening, Saint. And you must come to the party afterwards, I’ll manage to get you off to myself somehow — Come along, Mark.”
“Yes, dear.” Belden gave Simon one of those unnecessarily hearty handshakes. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Templar. And you, Miss Holm. So long, Stratford. Don’t let it get you down.”
They made an exit which should have had an orchestral background, and Stratford Keane stared after them rudely.