"Hush," he said. "Not so loud. I may be an honest citizen to all intents and purposes, but I haven't got used to it. Come and have a drink and tell me the story of your life."
"I'm sorry." Did he imagine that she still seemed a trifle breathless, just as he might have imagined that swift glimmer of fright in her eyes when he caught hold of her? "Not just now. Can't we have lunch or something tomorrow? I–I've got an appointment."
"With Marty?"
He was sure now. There was a perceptible hesitation before she answered, exactly as if she had paused to consider whether she should tell him the truth or invent a story.
"Yes. Please — I'm in a hurry…"
"So am I." The Saint's voice was innocently persuasive. "Can I give you a lift? I'd like to see Marty again."
"I'm afraid he's ill."
This was a lie. The Saint knew it, but the genial persuasion of his smile didn't alter. Those who knew him best had learned that that peculiarly lazy and aimless smile was the index of a crystallizing determination which was harder to resist than most other men's square-jawed aggression.
A taxi stood conveniently empty by the curb. He opened the door; and he still held her arm.
"Where to?" he asked as they settled down.