Sentinel shifted his cigar.
"I had to give him a certain amount of information, but I didn't say anything about your visit. I noticed that he kept looking at the cigarettes in the ash tray, though, so perhaps he was trying to spot your brand."
"Poor old Claud," said the Saint. "He still keeps on reading Sherlock Holmes!"
Little more was said on the swift northward run, but the Saint was not ungrateful for the silence. He had plenty to keep his mind occupied. He sat smoking, busy with his own thoughts.
The evening was cold and pitch black by the time they had left the outer suburbs behind and the Rolls turned its long nose into a private driveway. There were thick trees on either side; and after a hundred yards, before there was any sign of the house, Sentinel slowed down to take a sharp curve. As though they had materialized out of the fourth dimension two figures jumped on the car's running boards, one on either side. The Saint could see dimly in the reflection of the headlights the bloated figure and bespectacled, bearded face of the man who had swung open the driving door.
"You vill stop der car, please."
"Vell, vell, vell!" said the Saint mildly. "This is certainly great stuff."
His hand was reaching round for his automatic, but by this time his own door had opened, and the car had jerked to a standstill, for both Mr Sentinel's feet had instinctively trodden hard on the pedals. The cold rim of an automatic inserted itself affectionately into the back of Simon Templar's neck.
"Move one finger and you're dead," said Mr Rad-don unimaginatively.
"Brother, unless you're very careful you'll drive that thing out through my Adam's apple," Simon complained.