“And of course you beat the bejesus out of him,” Simon said gently.
Two faint red spots burned on Groom’s pallid cheekbones.
“It was just one of those night-club brawls. He apologised later. It was just one of those things. That ought to be obvious. Otherwise I wouldn’t have been working for him afterwards.”
“Do you know what I think?” asked the Saint, with such complete deliberation that the effrontery of what he was saying was almost too bland to grasp. “I think you were on the make for his girl, and you were out of luck. I think he pushed your face in in front of everyone who was there. I think you’ve been nursing your humiliation ever since—”
“Then why did I go to work for him?” asked Groom, with surprising self-possession.
Simon knew that he was on a tightrope. He was bluffing his head off to get information, and it had worked up to a point, but he could be knocked off his precarious elevation with a feather. But once he had started, he couldn’t stop.
“What did Ufferlitz have on you?” he retorted.
“You must be crazy.”
“Are you sure?”
“All right. You tell the Lieutenant this time.”