"Sometimes they are necessary," said Quintana and turned to Perez. "You agree, Major?"
The Spanish Patriot, with his eyes still fixed on the Saint, brought his features into perfunctory and calculating repose.
"Of course."
Quintana bowed.
"Will you come this way, Mr Templar?"
Simon hitched himself off the mantelpiece and strolled across to the communicating door. Quintana moved aside to let him pass and immediately fell in behind him and followed him into the study. Urivetzky came after him, and Perez completed the procession and closed the door. It was rather like a special committee going into conference or an ark taking in its crew.
No one who watched the Saint dissolve into the most comfortable armchair would have imagined that there was a single shadow of anxiety in his mind. But behind that one and only shield which he had he was wondering with a cold prickle in his nerves where the next shot was coming from.
He knew that there was something coming. He had put over his own bluff, but even he couldn't convince himself that it had gone over quite so triumphantly. Except in storybooks things simply didn't happen that way. Men like Quintana and Urivetzky and Perez didn't crumple up and stop fighting directly they met an obstacle. And in the very way they had so suddenly seemed to crumple up there was enough to tell him that he would need every mental and physical gift that he had to keep ahead of them through the next couple of moves.
With nothing but an air of lazy good humour he stretched out his hand towards Perez.
"Could I have my cigarette case back now?" he drawled. "Or were you thinking of giving it to somebody for a birthday present?"