"I'm afraid there isn't," said the Saint. "This is just a block of flats."
"Well, I guess I'll just be bawled out. Gosh, but that poor kid'll be worried stiff!"
Simon looked up at the clock. He was in no great hurry.
"You can phone from my flat if you like," he said. "It's on the second floor."
"Say, that's real kind of you!"
The Saint helped him into the lift, and they shot upwards. Settled in an armchair beside the telephone, the American made a reassuring call to the Savoy Hotel number. Simon thought it was excessively sloppy, but it was not his business.
"Well, that's that," said his guest, and when the gush was over, "I guess I owe you something for your kindness. Have a cigar?"
Simon accepted the weed. It was a large fat one, with a lovely picture on the band.
"Think of me cracking up like that in your arms!" prattled the American, whose vocal cords at least seemed unimpaired. "Gosh, you musta thought I was something out of a flower-bed. I didn't know they could take that much outa you along with your appendix. And all this fuss to find a damn brass Buddha! Gosh, it makes you wonder what nut started this collecting game."
The Saint, with a match half-way to his cigar, stared at him till the flame scorched his fingers.