"There she is, friend. Say, you're looking at me like I was a mummy come to life. What's the matter?"
The Saint filled his lungs. For him, the day had suddenly bloomed out into a rich surpassing beauty that only those who have shared his delight in damaging the careers of pompous old sinners with bushy grey face-hair can understand. The radiance of his own inspiration dazzled him.
"Nothing's the matter," he said seraphically. "Nothing on earth could be the matter on a day like this. How many millions will your Mr. Froussard give for that Buddha?"
"Well, millions is a large word," said Amberson, cautiously, looking at the Saint in not unreasonable perplexity. "But I guess I could pay fifteen thousand bucks for it."
"You find the bucks, and I'll find your Buddha," said the Saint.
Amberson grinned, and stood up.
"I don't know whether you've got an ace in the hole or whether you're just pulling my leg," he remarked; "but if you can find that Buddha the fifteen grand are waitin' for you. Say, I'm real grateful to you for helpin' me out like this. Come to the Savoy and have lunch tomorrow — and you can bring the Buddha with you, if you've found it."
"Thanks," said the Saint. "I'll do both."
He showed Amberson to the door, and came straight back to grab the telephone. Sir Ambrose Grange was out, he was informed, but he was expected back about six. Simon bought his evening paper, found that the favourite had won — he never backed favourites — and was at the telephone again, when the hour struck.
"I'm taking you at your word and coming over to see you, Sir Ambrose."