"I'm sorry, old son," he said. "It looks as if you'll have to take the truck on, after all. I've never seen Hoppy break down yet, but all the same it might be awkward if he met a policeman."
"Couldn't that wait till tomorrow?"
"I'd rather not risk it. The sooner the truck's cleared and out of the way, the better."
"Okay, chief."
"Hoppy," said the Saint restrainedly, "stop that god-awful noise and take your boy friend inside."
Peter handed over the prisoner, and they walked back towards the front of the van. A last plaintive layee-O, like the sob of a lovesick cat, squealed through the stilly night before Peter climbed back into the driving seat and restarted the engine. Simon helped him to turn the truck round, and then Peter leaned out of the window.
"What happens next?"
"I'll call you in the morning when I know something," Simon answered. "Happy landings!"
He watched the lorry start on its clattering descent of the hill, and then he turned and went towards the house. In the bright spacious living room the lorry driver was lolling in a chair under Hoppy's watchful eye. Simon went straight up to him.
"Get up," he said. "I haven't told you to make yourself at home yet. You're here to answer some questions."