"I don't know," Mercer said hesitantly. "I've just been having some dinner with Mr. Templar—"
"Bring him along," boomed Mr. Kilgarry heartily. "What's the difference? Four's better than three, any day. D'you play cards, Mr. Templar?"
"Most games," said the Saint cheerfully.
"That's fine," said Mr. Kilgarry. "Fine," he repeated, as if he wanted to leave no doubt that he thought it was fine.
Mr. Yoring looked dubious.
"I dunno. We play rather high stakes, Mr. Templar."
"They can't be too high for me," said the Saint boastfully.
"Fine," said Mr. Kilgarry again, removing the last vestige of uncertainty about his personal opinion. "Then that's settled. What's holding us back?"
There was really nothing holding them back except the drinks that were lined up on the bar, and that deterrent was eliminated with a discreetly persuasive briskness. Under Mr. Kilgarry's breezy leadership they piled into a taxi and headed for one of the smaller hotels on Ocean Drive, where Mr. Yoring proclaimed that he had a bottle of scotch that would save them from the agonies of thirst while they were playing. As they rode up in the elevator he hooked his arm affectionately through the Saint's.
"Say, you're awright, ole man," he announced. "I like to meet a young feller like you. You oughta come out fishin' with us. Got our own boat here, hired for the season, an' we just take out fellers we like. You like fishin'?"