"It's a handicap, really," said the Saint good-humouredly. "Their instinct tells them that if they saw much of me they'd do something their mothers wouldn't like, so as often as not they tear themselves reluctantly away."
"I noticed she looked reluctant," said Peter. "She took your car, too — that must have been a wrench."
The Saint grinned philosophically and tapped a cigarette on his thumbnail. His spirits were too elastic to know the meaning of depression, and the setback had intriguing angles to it which he was broad minded enough to appreciate as an artist.
The lorry, with Peter at the wheel, churned on through West Holme onto the Wareham road; and Simon Templar lounged back on the hard seat beside him with his feet propped up where the dashboard would have been if the lorry had boasted any such refinements and considered the situation without malice. In the interior of the van, behind him, Hoppy Uniatz was keeping the original driver under control; and Simon hoped that he wouldn't do too much damage to the cargo. But even allowing for Mr Uniatz's phenomenal capacity, there was enough bottled kale there to save the night's work from being a total loss.
They were clattering through the sleeping streets of Ringwood before Peter Quentin said: "What are you going to do about the car?"
"Report it stolen sometime tomorrow. She'll have ditched it by then — it's too hot to hold on to."
"And suppose she reports the lorry first?"
Simon shook his head.
"She won't do that. It'd be too embarrassing if the police happened to catch us. We come out best on the deal, Peter. And on top of that, we've had a good look at her, and we'd know her again."
"It ought to be easy," said Peter cheerlessly. "After all, there are only about ten million girls in England, and if we divide the country up between us—"