“Did I ever happen to tell you,” he inquired carefully, “that out of a lot of yellow-bellied swine that I’ve met, you could take a very distinguished place?”
Only for an instant Julius’s face took on a deeper flush, and his pale eyes burned behind the thick glasses. And then he smiled again.
“Fortunately your opinions will soon be of no consequence,” he said, and the Saint’s eyes were lazy with contempt.
“You mean after I’ve been — what was your polite totalitarian word for it? — liquidated?”
“Precisely.”
“And when does that happen?”
“Immediately.”
The Saint looked again at the remains of the cigarette in his fingers, and reached for his package. He took out the last cigarette and lighted it very deliberately from the stub. A great deal seemed to depend on that simple action. But when there is so little between a man and the end of his life, not even the smallest thing can be taken lightly.
When he looked up, his eyes were almost gay.
“Do tell me,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve got something picturesque thought out.”