"It refers to a hobby of his. How exactly is this bracelet being sent?"
"By post. Mr. Tillson — Broads is coming in tomorrow to see it off and enclose a letter, and a man from the insurance company is coming down as well — that seems an awful lot of formality, but I suppose they have to be careful. Now what do you think will happen? Will Broads pull out a gun and hold us all up?"
"I doubt it," murmured the Saint mildly. "Broads isn't a violent man. Besides, if there was anything like that in the air he'd have done it yesterday. Let me think."
He leaned back and scowled thoughtfully into space. More than once he had truthfully admitted that the solving of ancient mysteries wasn't in his line; but the imaginative construction of forthcoming ones was another matter. The Saint's immoral mind worked best and most rapidly along these lines… And then, as he scowled into space, a headline in the evening paper that was being read by a fat gent at an adjoining table percolated into his abstracted vision; and he sat up with a start that made the fat gent turn round and glare at him.
"I've got it!" he cried. "Whoops — and what a beauty!"
She caught at his sleeve.
"Tell me, Simon."
"No, darling. That I can't do — not till afterwards. But you shall hear it, if you like to meet me again on Saturday. What time is this posting party?"
"Eleven o'clock. But listen — I must tell Mr. Emberton —"
"You must do nothing of the sort." The Saint shook his head at her sadly. "What do you want to do, Ruth — ruin the only bit of business the poor man's done this week? He's got his money, hasn't he? The rest of the show is purely private."