Morland fumbled with his matches, trying to get his pipe going again. His hands were just a trifle clumsy, not quite so steady as they would otherwise have been.
“It’s very nice of you, but — we haven’t any right to bother you. I’m not going to worry.”
“But we can’t turn Mr Templar out at this hour of the night,” Jean said quickly. “At least we can find a bed for him.”
“We... we don’t have any room to offer him dear.”
Simon smiled at the girl.
“I can put up with the bunkhouse,” he said, “if you can put up with me. I’d like to stay.”
“There’s a spare bed in my room,” Reefe said detachedly. “He’s welcome to that.”
Half an hour later Simon Templar sat on the spare bed in Hank Reefe’s room, pulling off his boots and watching the foreman silently roll another cigarette. With the smoke going, Reefe dug under his bed and pulled out a well-worn suitcase. Out of it he extracted an almost as well-worn cartridge belt, from which the holster hung heavy with a Colt.45. He took the revolver out, sprung out the cylinder and spun it, checking the load.
“At least you didn’t think I was kidding,” said the Saint.
Reefe looked at him with his lean poker face.