"I don't think I need bother you with any more questions, Miss Avery," he said brusquely.
He went out of the room very much like a beaten dog, and if he had had a tail it would have been hanging between his legs. The Saint followed him out, closed the door and lighted a fresh cigarette.
"Cheer up, Claud," he said kindly. "You've got over these things before, and you'll get over it again. Look me squarely in the eye and tell me you're sorry I'm not the Z-Man, and I'll spread you all over the hall in a mass of squashy pulp."
The detective looked at him for a long time.
"Damn it, Saint, you've got me," he growled sheepishly. "You know how much I want to get my hands on you, but I'd still be glad if you weren't the Z-Man."
"Then why not be glad?"
"I think I'm getting some more ideas now," Teal went on, flashing the Saint a glance which was very far from sleepy. "Miss Avery — Miss Cromwell — Miss Ireland. Top-line film stars, every one. Let me make another guess. Those girls are the Z-Man's intended victims; and if you aren't the Z-Man yourself you've brought them here so that they'll be safe while you go after him."
"You must have been eating a lot of fish and spinach," said the Saint respectfully. "Your ideas are improving every minute — except for one minor detail. I've been out after the Z-Man already, I've met him, and we had quite an interesting Jive minutes."
Mr Teal, who had just rolled up a fresh slice of spearmint with his tongue like a miniature piece of music, shook his head sceptically.
"Just because I'll believe you up to a point—"