The Saint lighted a cigarette, and in doing it confirmed an impression that he had caught out of the corner of his eye. His Buick had just then turned the corner in from the desert, but he did not want to help the other to notice it.
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll talk it over with him, and he’ll do what I advise.”
“Mr Morland must have great confidence in you.”
The probing dubiety was still there, but the man’s saccharine accents made the words sound like a compliment.
“This is Mr Morland’s daughter,” said the Saint easily. “She’ll tell you.”
Without looking at him, the girl said, “My father always does what Mr Templar tells him.”
There was a stillness in which the whole earth took part. It seemed as if no living thing could be moving or breathing anywhere. And yet all of that hush was mental, without any change of expression anywhere to which it could be attached. Jean Morland must even have been unaware that it had taken place at all. The visitor went on looking at Simon with his deferential smile and appealing spaniel eyes, his fingers pulling on his soft lower lip.
He said, almost apologetically, “Then... surely... Mr Templar could tell me now — whether I have any hope—”
“Give me a day or two to think it over,” Simon said.
“But this wild threat of Mr Valmon’s. He said he had given you some sort of ultimatum. It’s absurd, of course, but he’s the type of man who might be capable of carrying it out. Then this property would be spoiled. Then, of course, I shouldn’t have had even a sporting chance to make good with it. So then it wouldn’t be fair to ask me to repeat my offer. I don’t want to rush you, but you must see why my proposition can only be good for tonight.”