"That was more or less my idea," he said calmly.
She was neither shocked nor frightened. She studied him with as sober and matter-of-fact attention as if they were discussing where she might find another job, but a restrained intenseness with which he thought he could sympathize came into her voice. She said: "I couldn't call anybody a criminal who did that. He really deserves to lose them. I believe I'd be capable of robbing him myself if I knew how to go about it. Have you ever done anything like that before?"
"I have had a certain amount of experience," Simon admitted mildly.
"Who are you?"
"If you were reading newspapers a few years back you may have read about me. I'm called the Saint."
"You? You're kidding." She stared at him, and the amused disbelief in her face changed slowly into a weakening incredulity. "But you might be. I saw a photograph once… Oh, if you only were! I'd help you to do it — I wouldn't care what it cost."
"You can help me by telling me everything you can remember about Oppenheim's household and how it works."
She had been there several times; and there were many useful things she remembered, which his skillful questioning helped to bring out. They went down into the back of his mind and stayed there while he talked about other things. The supremely simple and obvious solution came to him a full two hours later, when they were dancing on a small packed floor above Broadway.
He took her back to their table as the main batteries of lights went on for the floor show, lighted a cigarette and announced serenely:
"It's easy. I know just how Comrade Oppenheim is going to lose his emeralds."