“Now you’ve broken the spell,” said the Saint reproachfully. “We are no longer in tune with the infinite. So — it seems as if we may have to leave you with your problem. Unless, of course, you propose to arrest me now and fight it out with my lawyers later.”
“Not right away, son. We don’t none of us want to be too hasty. But just don’t get too far away, or the old police dog might have to start bayin’ a trail.”
“We’ll be around,” said the Saint, and ushered Patricia out.
As the murmurous inanities of the public rooms lapped around them again, she glanced up and found his eyes as blue and debonair as if no cares had ever crossed his path. The smile he gave her was as light as gosling down.
“I hardly think,” he drawled, “that we have bothered Señor Esteban enough. Would’st you care to join me?”
“Try and lose me,” said the girl.
They found Esteban keeping a weather eye on the play of his guests, and followed his politely lifted brows to the patio.
“The moonlight, she is so beautiful,” Esteban said, with all the earnestness of a swing fan discussing Handel. “Did the sheriff let you go?”
“Like he let you — on probation,” Simon answered cheerfully. “He just told us to stick around.”
The man formed insolent question marks with the corners of his mouth.