The Saint spun round.
She stood in the open doorway, her feet astride with a hint of boyish swagger, still in her soiled overalls, one hand in the trouser pocket, with the yellow curls turn-Ming around her exquisitely moulded face, a slight smile on her red lips. Her eyes, he discovered, now that he saw them open for the first time, were a dark midnight grey — almost the same shade as the automatic he held steadily levelled at his chest.
For three seconds the Saint stood rigidly spellbound. And then a slow smile touched the corners of his mouth in response.
"Well, darling," he murmured, "what is your name?"
V
"You ought to be a detective, Mr Templar," she said. "I don't have to ask you yours."
"But you have an advantage. We've tried checking up on your lorries, but you always send them out with fake number plates and no other identification, so it's rather difficult. I have to suffer for being honest."
"Or for not being so careful," she said. "By the way, will you tell your friend to do something about his hands?"
Simon looked round. Mr Uniatz was still frozen as the interruption had caught him, with his mouth hanging open and his right hand arrested halfway to the armpit holster where his Betsy nestled close to his heart. His eyes welcomed the Saint with an agonized plea for guidance, and Simon took his wrist and put his hand gently down.
"Leave it alone for a minute, Hoppy," he said. "We don't want the lady to start shooting…" His gaze turned back to the girl. "That is, if she can shoot," he added thoughtfully.