The stare darkened, without taking on any more expression.
"Whaddaya want?" it asked flatly.
"I want to see Lucky Joe."
"He ain't here."
"Tell him it's about Marty O'Connor," said the Saint gently. "And tell him he doesn't know how lucky he is."
The man looked at him for a moment longer and then closed the door suddenly. Simon lighted a cigarette and waited patiently. The door opened again.
"Come in."
Simon went in. The man who had let him in stayed behind him, with his back to the door. Another man of similarly taciturn habits and lack of facial expression sat on the arm of a chair by the window, with one hand in his coat pocket, thoughtfully picking his teeth with the other. Luckner sat on the settee, in his shirt sleeves, with his feet on a low table. He took the cigar out of his mouth and looked at the Saint reflectively.
Simon came to a halt in front of him and touched two fingers to the brim of his hat in a lazy and ironical salute. He smiled, with a faint twinkle in his blue eyes, and Luckner glowered at him uncertainly.
"Well — what is it?"