"No."
Quintana gazed at the Saint thoughtfully, stroking the barrel of his automatic with his left hand.
"You will excuse us not speaking English, Mr Templar," he said at length. "Naturally it is easier for us to speak our own language. But I was just trying to find out how good your case was. Major Perez assures me that we are more or less in your hands."
The Saint, who knew that Major Perez had done no such thing, returned his gaze with a bland and gullible smile. "That was what I was trying to make you see, dear old bird," he said, but his pulses were beating a little faster.
"If you will come into the next room," said Quintana, "we had better see if we can settle this matter like gentlemen."
Urivetzky's brow blackened incredulously, and he made an abrupt movement.
"Fools I" he snarled. "Would you let this man—"
"Please," said Quintana, turning towards him. "Would you allow me to handle this affair in my own way? We are not criminals — we are supposed to be diplomats."
As he had turned the Saint could only see him in profile; but Simon knew as certainly as if he could have seen it that the side of his face which only Urivetzky could see moved in a significant wink. He knew it if from nothing else from the way Urivetzky's scowl smoothed out into inscrutability.
"Perhaps you are right," Urivetzky said presently with a shrug. "But these ways are not my ways."