"Who's dat, boss?" asked Mr Uniatz, struggling valiantly to get his grey matter flowing.
This was no small effort, for nature had only provided him with a very small quantity, and even this was of a glue-like consistency.
"You may be right about the Dorchester," said the Saint sourly as he eased himself into a chair. "Anyway, it didn't do me much good. A charming young lady gave me ten thousand quid and the dirtiest look of the century. Tell me, Hoppy, has anything happened to my face to make it look as if I'd blackmail charming young ladies?"
"You look okay to me, boss," said Mr Uniatz blankly. "Who is dis dame?"
Remembering Mr Uniatz's mental disadvantages, Simon told his story in simple one-syllable words that would have sent the director of children's hour programs delirious with delight. He had had so much practice in that difficult exercise that Mr Uniatz, in spite of the limitations of his cerebral system, finally grasped the basic facts.
"De goil t'inks you are some udder guy," he said brightly.
"You put it in a nutshell, Hoppy," said the Saint admiringly.
"De guy who puts de black on her."
"Precisely."
"De guy," persisted Hoppy, working nobly to get all his facts in order, "who is playing games in de distance."