Groom had been gazing at the Saint in aloof and somber silence.
“You shaved this morning,” he said at last, with an air of tired and pained discovery.
“I often do,” Simon admitted.
“I thought I asked you to start a moustache for this picture.”
“I know. I remember. But since there ain’t gonna be no picture—”
Condor moved his large feet.
“When you shaved this morning,” he said suddenly, “how did you know there wasn’t going to be a picture?”
No earthquake actually took place at that moment, but Simon Templar had the same feeling in his limbs as if the ground had started to shiver under him. He felt rather like a master duellist whose flawless guard has been thrown wide by a bludgeon wielded by an unconsidered spectator. But he was only stopped for an instant. He was lighting a cigarette, and he brought the job to an unruffled completion while his reflexes used the pause to settle back into balance.
“I didn’t know,” he said lightly. “I was just trying to make Mr Groom see that it doesn’t really matter now. As a matter of fact I still wasn’t sold on the idea, and I was going to argue about it some more.”
“The Saint would wear a moustache,” Mr Groom insisted moodily.