"Okay," said the Saint. "You'll get your three pounds."
"Ar," said the driver.
He ground the gears again and sent the cab spluttering on, slightly mollified by the prospect of collecting double the cost of the repair; and the Saint sat back and took out a cigarette.
As far as he was concerned it was worth the bonus to dispose of a witness who might have inconvenient recollections of a fare who allowed himself to be shot at fru winders; but there were other points less easy to dispose of, and he was still considering them when he opened the door of his flat in Cornwall House.
He found Patricia with her feet up on the settee, smoking a cigarette, while Geoffrey Graham, balanced on springs on the edge of a chair as usual, appeared to be expounding the principles of architecture.
"… You see, it isn't only functional, but the rhythmic balance of mass has to have a definite harmonic correlation—"
"Yippee," said the Saint gravely. "But what about the uncoordinated finials?"
The young man jumped up, turned pink and spilt some beer from the tankard he was clutching. Patricia looked up with a rather wan smile.
"You haven't been very long," she said. "Mr Graham and I were only just getting to know each other."
"I should have said you were getting pretty intimate, myself," murmured the Saint. "When you decide that it isn't only functional and start to get a spot of harmonic correlation into your rhythmic masses—"