"That dinner and dance you were organizing for Friday — you sent me an invitation," he said. "Is it too late for me to get a ticket?"
"I've got some in my bag. If you've got twenty-five dollars—"
He laid fifty dollars on the table.
"Make it two — I may want someone to help me carry the loot."
Her eyes went hard and sharp for an instant before a buzz of excited comment from her listening guests shut her off from him. He smiled at them all inscrutably and firmly changed the subject while he finished his coffee and smoked another cigarette. After he had taken his leave, she faced a bombardment of questions with stony preoccupation.
"Come to the dance on Friday," was all she would say. "You may see some excitement."
Mr. Ullbaum, summoned to the Presence again the next morning, almost tore his hair.
"Now will you tell the police?" he gibbered.
"Don't be so stupid," she snapped. "I'm not going to lose anything, and he's going to look a bigger fool than he has for years. All I want you to do is see that the papers hear that Friday is the day — we may sell a few more tickets."
Her instinct served her well in that direction at least. The stories already published, vague and contradictory as they were, had boosted the sale of tickets for the Grand Ball in aid of the National League for the Care of Incurables beyond her expectations, and the final announcement circulated to the press by the unwilling Mr. Ullbaum caused a flurry of last-minute buying that had the private ballroom hired for the occasion jammed to overflowing by eight o'clock on the evening of the twentieth. It was a curious tribute to the legends that had grown up around the name of Simon Templar, who had brought premature grey hairs to more police officers than could easily have been counted. Everyone who could read knew that the Saint had never harmed any innocent person, and there were enough sensation-seekers with clear consciences in New York to fill the spacious suite beyond capacity.