“Yeah? Well, I’m warning you.”
“You’re tempting me. I wish policemen wouldn’t keep doing that.” Simon beckoned a waiter. “Coffee — and how about some crêpes Suzette?”
The detective bunched his napkin on the table.
“No, thank you. Let me have my check — separately.”
“But I invited you.”
“I can take care of myself, Saint. I hope you can too. Just don’t forget, you had your warning.”
“I won’t forget,” said the Saint softly.
He lighted a cigarette after the police officer had gone, and thoughtfully stirred sugar into his coffee.
He was not affronted by Wendel’s ungraciousness — that sort of reaction was almost conventional, and he hadn’t exactly exerted himself to avoid it. But it was a pity, he thought, that so many policemen in their most earnest efforts to avert trouble were prone to throw down challenges which no self-respecting picaroon could ignore. Because it happened to be perfectly true that the Saint had entered New Orleans without a single design upon Lady Offchurch or her pearls, and if it was inept of the law to draw his attention to them, it was even more tactless to combine the reminder with what virtually amounted to a dare.
Even so (the Saint assured himself), his fundamental strength and nobility of character might still have been able to resist the provocation if Destiny hadn’t thrown in the girl with the golden hair...