"That's an old trick, Mr. Deever," he said. "It's lucky that you were warned. Come along, you — put your hands out."
Simon looked down at the handcuffs.
"You don't need those," he said.
"I've heard about you," said the inspector grimly, "and I think we do. Come on, now, and no nonsense."
For the first time in his life Simon felt the cold embrace of steel on his wrists. A constable put his hat on for him, and he was marched out into the the street. A small crowd had collected outside, and already the rumour of his identity was passing from mouth to mouth.
The local inspector did not spare him. Simon Templar was a celebrity, a capture that every officer in England had once dreamed of making, even if of late it had been found impossible to link his name with any proven crimes; and once arrested he was an exhibit to be proud of. The police station was not far away, and the Saint was compelled to walk to it, with his manacled wrists chained to the burly constable on his left and the inspector striding on his right.
He was charged with attempting to obtain money under false pretences; and when it was all written down they asked him if he had anything to say.
"Only that my right sock is wearing a bit thin at the heel," answered the Saint. "D'you think someone could beetle along to my hotel and dig out a new pair?"
He was locked in a cell to be brought before the magistrate on the following Monday. It was Simon Templar's third experience of that, but he enjoyed it no more than the first time.
During Sunday he had one consoltation. He was able to divert himself with thoughts of what he could do with about ten thousand pounds.