For once, however, Simon's guess was wrong. Instead of the indignant equine features of Harry Westler, he confronted the pink imploring features of the small and shapeless elderly gent with whom he had danced prettily around the gateposts the day before. The little man's face lighted up and he bounced over the doorstep and seized the Saint joyfully by both lapels of his coat.
"Mnynghlfwgl!" he crowed triumphantly. "Ahkgmp glglgl hndiuphwmp!"
Simon recoiled slightly.
"Yes. I know," he said soothingly. "But it's five o'clock on Fridays. Two dollars every other yard."
"Ogh hmbals!" said the little man.
He let go the Saint's coat, ducked under his arms and scuttled on into the living room.
"Oi!" said the Saint feebly.
"May I explain, sir?"
Another voice spoke from the doorway, and Simon perceived that the little man had not come alone. Someone else had taken his place on the threshold — a thin and mournful-looking individual whom the Saint somewhat pardonably took to be the little man's keeper.
"Are you looking after that?" he inquired resignedly. "And why don't you keep it on a lead?"