“The cameo opal, for one thing,” Appopoulis said easily. “For the other, the girl.”
“And what do you intend to do with them?”
“Cherish them, sir. Both of them.”
His voice had encyclopedic lust and greed, and the Saint felt as if small things crawled on him.
Before he could make an answer, stirrings in their respective corners announced the return of Mac and Jimmy to another common plane of existence. Without a word they got groggily to their feet, shook their heads clear of trip hammers, and moved toward the Saint.
“Now, Mr Templar,” said Appopoulis, “you have a choice. Live, and my desires are granted without violence, or die, and they are spiced with emotions at fever heat.”
Mac and Jimmy had halted: one small and thunderstruck, one large and paralyzed.
“Boss,” quavered Jimmy, “did youse say Templar? Da Saint?”
“The same.” Simon bowed.
“Chee!” Mac breathed. “Da Saint. Da Robin Hood of Modern Crime, da—”