He broke off, with his own jaw sinking.
James G. Amberson was flying across the room, with his Panama hat waving in his hand and his spectacles gleaming. He flung himself into a chair at the Saint's table.
"Say, did you think I was dead? My watch musta stopped while I was huntin' through junk stores in Limehouse — I saw the clock outa the taxi window as I was comin' back, and almost had a heart attack. Gosh, I'm sorry!"
"That's all right," murmured the Saint. "Pat, you haven't met Mr. Amberson. This is our Nice American. James G. — Miss Patricia Holm."
"Say, I'm real pleased to meet you, Miss Holm. Guess Mr. Templar told you how I fainted in his arms yesterday." Amberson reached over and wrung the girl's hand heartily. "Well, Mr. Templar, if you've had lunch you can have a liqueur," He waved to a waiter. "And, say, did you find me that Buddha?"
Simon bent down and hauled a small parcel out from under the table.
"This is it."
Amberson gaped at the package for a second; and then he grabbed it and tore it open. He gaped again at the contents — then at the Saint.
"Well, I'm a son of a — Excuse me, Miss Holm, but —"
"Is that right?" asked the Saint.