"It suits me," he said swaggeringly. "Mr. Dean will have my check this afternoon."
He stalked away, still fuming; and Morgan Dean's long sad face came closer to the Saint.
"Son," he said, "I like a good story as much as anyone. And I like you. And nobody 'd cheer louder than me if Vascoe took a toss. But don't you think you've bitten off more than you can chew? I know how much Vascoe loves you, and I'd say he'd almost be glad to spend five thousand pounds to see you in jail. Besides, it wouldn't do you any good. You couldn't sell stuff like this."
"You could sell it without the slightest trouble," Simon contradicted him. "There are any number of collectors who aren't particular how they make their collections, and who don't care if they can't show them to the public. And I've never been in jail, anyway — one ought to try everything once."
He spent the next hour going slowly round the exhibition, making careful written notes about the exhibits in his catalogue, while Vascoe watched him with his rage rising to the brink of apoplexy. He also examined all the windows and showcases, taking measurements and drawing diagrams with a darkly conspiratorial air, and only appearing to notice the existence of the two obvious detectives who followed him everywhere when he politely asked them not to breathe so heavily down his neck.
Teal saw the headlines, and nearly blew all the windows out of Scotland Yard. He burst into the Saint's apartment like a whirling dervish.
"What's the meaning of this?" he bugled brassily, thrusting a crumpled copy of the Daily Mail under the Saint's nose. "Come on — what is it?"
Simon looked at the quivering sheet.
" 'Film Star Says She Prefers Love'," he read from it innocently. "Well, I suppose it means just that, Claud. Some people are funny that way."
"I mean this!" blared the detective, dabbing at Morgan Dean's headline with a stubby forefinger. "I've warned you once, Templar; and by God if you try to win this bet I'll get you for it if it's the last thing I do!"