"It won't do them any good either! When I've finished with them—"
"But that won't get any of the money back."
"I'll beat it out of them."
"But that'll only get you in trouble with the police. That wouldn't help. Wait!" She clung to him frantically. "I've got it. You could borrow Mr. Templar's glasses and play them at their own game. You could break Yoring's glasses — sort of accidentally. They wouldn't dare to stop playing on account of that. They'd just have to trust to luck, like you've been doing, and anyway, they'd feel sure they were going to get it all back again later. And you could win everything back and never see them again." She shook his arm in her excitement. "Go on, Eddie. It 'd serve them right. I'll let you play just once more if you'll do that!"
Mercer's eyes turned to the Saint, and Simon pushed the glasses across the table towards him.
The young man picked them up slowly, looked at the cards through them again. His mouth twitched. And then, with a sudden hopeless gesture, he thrust them away and passed a shaky hand over his eyes.
"It's no good," he said wretchedly. "I couldn't do it. They know I don't wear glasses. And I–I've never done anything like that before. I'd only make a mess of it. They'd spot me in five minutes. And then there wouldn't be anything I could say. I–I wouldn't have the nerve. I suppose I'm just a mug after all…"
The Saint leaned back and put a light to a cigarette and sent a smoke ring spinning through the fronds of a potted palm. In all his life he had never missed a cue, and it seemed that this was very much like a cue. He had come to Miami to bask in the sun and be good, but it wasn't his fault if business was thrust upon him.
"Maybe someone with a bit of experience could do it better," he said. "Suppose you let me meet your friends."
Mercer looked at him, first blankly, then incredulously; and the girl's dark eyes slowly lighted up.