The Saint blew smoke-rings towards the ceiling.
"If you could make it two thousand I don't think you'd be able to buy me off, darling. Being bought off is so dull. So what's the alternative? Am I slugged with another sandbag and locked up in the pantry?"
Suddenly he found that she was gripping his arm, looking straight into his face.
"I'm not thinking about your health, Saint," she said quietly. "I want that pendant. I want it more than I'd expect you to believe. I've never asked any other man a favour in my life. I know that in our racket men don't do favours — without getting paid for it. But you're supposed to be different, aren't you?"
"This is a new act, Kate," murmured the Saint interestedly. "Do go on — I want to hear what the climax is."
"Do you think this is an act?"
"I don't want to be actually rude, darling, especially after all the dramatic fervour you put into it, but —"
"You've got every right to think so," she said; and he saw that the merriment was gone from her great brown eyes. "I should think the same way if I were in your place. I'll try to keep the dramatic fervour out of it. Can I tell you — that the pendant means the way out of the racket for me? I'm going straight after this." She was twisting her handkerchief, turning away from him now. "I'm going to get married — on the level. Funny, isn't it?"
He glanced at her doubtfully, with that mocking curve still lingering on his lips. For some reason he refrained from asking whether her other husbands had been informed of this plan: he knew nothing about her private life. But even with the best intentions a modern Robin Hood must get that way; and he did not know why he was silent.
And then, quite clearly, he heard the tread of leisurely feet on the other side of the clump of imported vegetation behind which they were concealed. Instinctively they glanced at one another, listening, and heard a man's fat chuckle beyond the palms.