Nobody made any movement except as the Saint directed. The countess felt as if she were in a nightmare. It was amazing to her that the holdup could have continued so long without interruption — without some waiter opening a service door and seeing what was going on, or someone outside in the hotel noticing the curious quietness and giving the alarm. But the ballroom might have been spirited away on to a desert island.
The last of the obedient procession passed by the Saint and left its contribution in the bag and joined the silent staring throng of those who had already contributed. Only the chairman and the countess had not moved — the chairman because he hadn't heard a word and didn't know what was going on.
The Saint looked at her across the room.
"I've been saving Countess Jannowicz to the last," he said, "because she's the star turn that you've all been waiting for. Will you step up now, Countess?"
Fighting a tangle of emotions, but compelled by a fascination that drove her like a machine, she moved towards the platform. And the Saint glanced at the group of almost frantic photographers.
"Go ahead, boys," he said kindly. "Take your pictures. It's the chance of a lifetime… Your necklace, Countess."
She stood still, raised her hands a little way, dropped them, raised them again, slowly to her neck. Magnesium bulbs winked and splashed like a barrage of artificial lightning as she unfastened the clasp and dropped the necklace on top of the collection in the bag.
"You can't get away with this," she said whitely.
"Let me show you how easy it is," said the Saint calmly. He turned his gun to the nearest man to the platform. "You, sir — would you mind closing the bag, carefully, and taking it down to my friend at the other end of the room? Thank you." He watched the bag on its way down the room until it was in the hands of the stocky man at the far entrance. "Okay, partner," he said crisply. "Scram."
As if the word had been a magical incantation, the man vanished.