"I heard you," she said.
"Yus." Jopley's voice was loud and grating. "Goin' ter burn me feet, that's 'ow they were goin' ter get matey. I've a good mind—"
"You haven't," said the girl evenly. "We'll leave things like that to gentlemen like Mr Templar."
The Saint smiled at her.
"We've got a secondhand rack and some thumbscrews in the cellar too," he said. "But I prefer boiling people down with onions and a dash of white wine. It makes quite a good clear soup, rather like madrilene."
She really did look like something out of a fairy tale, he thought, or like a moment of musical comedy dropped miraculously into the comfortable masculine furnishings of the Old Barn, with the perfect proportions of her slender body triumphing even over that shabby suit of dungarees and her face framed in its setting of spun gold; but there was nothing illusory about the unfaltering alertness of those dark grey eyes or the experienced handling of the gun she held. The only uncertain thing about her was the smile that lingered about her lips.
She said: "I'm glad you didn't get me here."
"But you're here now," said the Saint. "So couldn't we make up for lost time?"
His hand moved towards his breast pocket, but the two guns that covered him moved more quickly. Simon raised his eyebrows.
"Can't I have a cigarette?"