"Well, I'm gonna order another," said Mr. Yoring defiantly. No wife was going to take him to the opera tonight. "Who said there was a Depression? What do you think, Mr. Templar?"
"I haven't found any in my affairs lately," Simon answered truthfully.
"You in business, Mr. Templar?" asked Mr. Kilgarry interestedly.
The Saint smiled.
"My business is letting other people make money for me," he said, continuing strictly in the vein of truth. He patted his pockets significantly. "The market's been doing pretty well these days."
Mr. Kilgarry and Mr. Yoring exchanged glances, while the Saint picked up his drink. It wasn't his fault if they misunderstood him; but it had been rather obvious that the conversation was doomed to launch some tactful feelers into his financial status, and Simon saw no need to add to their coming troubles by making them work hard for their information.
"Well, that's fine," said Mr. Yoring happily. "I'm gonna buy another drink."
"You can't," said Mr. Kilgarry. "It's my turn."
Mr. Yoring looked wistful, like a small boy who has been told that he can't go out and play with his new air gun. Then he wrapped an arm around Mercer's shoulders.
"You gonna play tonight, Eddie?"