"I'll take your five thousand pounds," Vascoe retorted viciously. "If you've got that much money. I'd be glad to break you as well as see you sent to jail. And if anything happens after this, the police will know who to look for!"
"That will be quite a change for them," said the Saint.
"And now, in the circumstances, I think we ought to have a stakeholder."
He scanned the circle of faces that had gathered round them, and singled out a dark cadaverous-looking man who was absorbing the scene from the background with an air of disillusioned melancholy.
"I see Morgan Dean of the Daily Mail over there," he said. "Suppose we each give him our cheques for five thousand pounds. He can pay them into his own bank, and write a cheque for ten thousand when the bet's settled. Then there won't be any difficulty about the winner collecting. What about it, Dean?"
The columnist rubbed his chin.
"Sure," he drawled lugubriously. "My bank 'll probably die of shock, but I'll chance it."
"Then we're all set," said the Saint, taking out his cheque-book. "Unless Mr. Vascoe wants to back out—"
Mr. Vascoe stared venomously from face to face. It was dawning on him that he was in a corner. If he had seen the faintest encouragement anywhere to laugh off the situation, he would have grabbed at the opportunity with both hands; but he looked for the encouragement in vain. He hadn't a single real friend in the room, and he was realist enough to know it. Already he could see heads being put together, could hear whispers… He knew just what would be said if he backed down… and Morgan Dean would put the story on the front page —
Vascoe drew himself up, and a malignant glitter came into his small eyes.