Vascoe recovered himselfwith difficulty, but his large face remained an ugly purple.
"Come to have a look round, have you?" he asked offensively. "Well, you can look as much as you like. I flatter myself this place is burglar-proof."
Meryl turned white; and the Count tittered. Other guests who were within earshot hovered expectantly — some of them, one might almost have thought, hopefully. But if they were waiting for a prompt and swift outbreak of violence, or even a sharp and candid repartee, they were doomed to disappointment. The Saint smiled with unruffled good humour.
"Burglar-proof, is it?" he said tolerantly. "You really think it's burglar-proof. Well, well, well!" He patted Mr. Vascoe's bald head affectionately. "Now I'll tell you what I'll do, Fatty. I'll bet you five thousand pounds it's burgled within a week."
For a moment Vascoe seemed to be in a tangle with his own vocal chords. He could only stand and gasp like a fish.
"You — you have the effrontery to come here and tell me you're going to burgle my house?" he spluttered. "You — you ruffian! I'll have you handed over to the police! I never heard of such — such — such—"
"I haven't committed any crime yet, that I know of," said the Saint patiently. "I'm simply offering you a sporting bet. Of course, if you're frightened of losing—"
"Such God-damned insolence!" howled Vascoe furiously. "I've got detectives here—"
He looked wildly around for them.
"Or if five thousand quid is too much for you," Simon continued imperturbably.