"And who'll get the benefit of them besides yourself?"
Simon smiled once again.
"Our first and most urgent case will be a fellow named Marty O'Connor. He helped me with the collection tonight. You ought to remember him — he was your chauffeur for three weeks. Anyone like yourself, Countess," said the Saint rather cruelly, "ought to know that charity begins at home."
Part VIII
The mug's game
The stout jovial gentleman in the shapeless suit pulled a card out of his wallet and pushed it across the table. The printing on it said "Mr. J. J. Naskill."
The Saint looked at it and offered his cigarette case.
"I'm afraid I don't carry any cards," he said. "But my name is Simon Templar."
Mr. Naskill beamed, held out a large moist hand to be shaken, took a cigarette, mopped his glistening forehead and beamed again.
"Well, it's a pleasure to talk to you, Mr. Templar," he said heartily. "I get bored with my own company on these long journeys and it hurts my eyes to read on a train. Hate travelling, anyway. It's a good thing my business keeps me in one place most of the time. What's your job, by the way?"