"For God's sake," the man burst out savagely, "are you trying to make me look a complete heel?"
The girl caught her breath, and her lip trembled. And then, with a sort of sob, she picked herself up and walked quickly away without another word.
The young man gazed after her in silence, and his fist clenched on a handful of sand as if he would have liked to hurt it.
"Oh hell," he said expressively.
Simon drew a cigarette out of the packet beside him and tapped it meditatively on his thumbnail while the awkward hiatus made itself at home. His eyes seemed to be intent on following the movements of a small fishing cruiser far out on the emerald waters of the Gulf Stream.
"It's none of my damn business," he remarked at length, "but isn't there just a chance that the girl friend may be right? It's happened before; and a resort like this is rather a happy hunting ground for all kinds of crooks."
"I know it is," said the other sourly. He turned and looked at the Saint again miserably. "But I am pigheaded, and I can't bear to admit to her that I could have been such a mug. She's my fiancée — I suppose you guessed that. My name's Mercer."
"Simon Templar is mine."
The name had a significance for Mercer that it apparently had not had for Mr. Naskill. His eyes opened wide.
"Good God, you don't mean — You're not the Saint?"