The other’s eyes misted at him through thick distorting lenses for an infinite instant, and the pink tonsure bobbed at him with impeccable punctilio before it turned away.
Simon Templar put his cigarette back in his mouth and drew long and deep as he eased his hip carefully on to the porch rail, before he turned to meet the inevitable unwavering challenge of Jean Morland’s calm clear eyes.
5
The green coupe had started away before she spoke. And then her voice had the same inquiring detachment as her gaze.
“He never mentioned his name,” she said. “But you knew it.”
The Saint nodded.
“How did he know mine?” he asked.
“I told him.”
Quite clearly she had no idea of the meaning that he might have placed on the word “know.” She went on, as though she was methodically determined to work through to something: “Why did you tell him you could speak for Daddy?”
“Why did you back me up?”