Simon had flashed past before he realised that he knew her — he had met her at a dance some weeks before. His distaste for Mr. Elliot Vascoe did not apply to Vascoe's slim auburn-haired daughter, whom Simon would have been prepared to put forward in any company as a triumphant refutation of the theories of heredity. He jammed on his brakes and backed up to the breakdown.
"Hullo, Meryl," he said. "Is there anything I can do?"
"If you can make this Chinese washing machine go," said the young man, raising his smeared face from the bowels of the engine, "you are not only a better man than I am, but I expect you can invent linotypes in your sleep."
"This is Mr. Fulton — Mr. Templar." The girl made the introduction with breathless haste. "We've been here for three-quarters of an hour—"
The Saint started to get out.
"I never was much of a mechanic," he murmured. "But if I can unscrew anything or screw anything up…"
"That wouldn't be any good — Bill knows everything about cars, and he's already taken it to pieces twice." The girl's voice was shaky with dawning hope. "But if you could take me home yourself… I've simply got to be back before seven! Do you think you could do it?"
Her tone was so frantic that she made it sound like a matter of life and death.
Simon glanced at his watch, and at the milometer on the dashboard. It would be about fifteen miles to Hammersmith, and it was less than twenty minutes to seven.
"I can try," he said, and turned to Fulton. "What about you — will you come on this death-defying ride?"