There was no more than that; and even in the way it was written the Saint could feel the agony of the man scrawling those words with broken and shaking fingers, driven by who could tell what delirious impulse of ultimate loneliness.
Simon's voice trailed away as the message trailed away, into a kind of formless silence.
Hoppy Uniatz gaped at him and then put down his bottle. He crowded over to squint at the writing with his own eyes.
"Say, ain't dat a break?" he demanded pachydermatously. "Now if we knew who dis guy Lasser is—"
"There's one Lasser you ought to know," said the Saint acidly. "He keeps you supplied with your favourite food… My God!"
The immensity of the idea he had stumbled over almost rocked him on his feet, and a blaze came into his eyes as he recovered himself.
''Lasser — Lasser's Wine Stores — the biggest liquor chain in the country! It'd be perfect!.. Wait a minute — I've just remembered. There's a picture of him somewhere—"
He picked up a copy of the Sporting and Dramatic News from the table and tore through it in search of the correlation of that flash of random memory. It was on a page of photographs headed "The Atlantic Yacht Club Ball at Grosvenor House" — one of those dreary collections of flashlight snapshots so dear to the peculiar snobbery of the British public. One of the pictures showed a group taken at their table, with a fat, bald-headed, jolly-faced man on the left. The caption under it ran:
Among Those Present: Mr Grant Lasser, Miss Brenda Marlow…
The Saint had not read any farther. His eyes were frozen on the picture of the girl next to Lasser, for it was also the picture of the girl who had been holding him up half an hour ago.