"Mr Templar? I've never had the pleasure of meeting you, but I've seen your picture and read about you in the papers. I've really got no business to come and take up your time, but—"
The Saint nodded. He was used to people who really had no business to come and take up his time — it was one of the penalties of fame, but it had often turned out to be a profitable penalty. He held out his cigarette case.
"Sit down and let's hear what's on your mind," he said soothingly. "I've never met you either, so anyway we start square."
"My name's Graham — Geoffrey Graham," The young man took a cigarette and sat on the arm of a chair as if he expected to bounce off at any moment.
"I don't know how much you want to know about me — I'm an articled pupil in an architect's office, and I live in Bloomsbury — my family live in Yorkshire, and they aren't very well off—"
"Have you murdered somebody?" asked the Saint gravely.
"No. No, I haven't done that—"
"Or burgled a bank?"
"No, but—"
"It might have been quite exciting if you had," said the Saint calmly. "But as things are, suppose you tell me what the trouble is first, and then we'll decide how far back to go into the story of your life."