"But how shall I know who it is when you call me up? You are going to call me up, aren't you? I'm in the London telephone directory, and the number here is Lyndhurst 9965." He lingered imperceptibly over the figures — but that was for Jopley's benefit. "Sometime when you're not so busy I'd like to take you out in the moonlight and tell you how beautiful you are."
"There's no moon tonight," she said, "so you'll want the torch to get home with."
The light spun towards him, and he grabbed for it automatically. By the time he had fumbled it into his hands the lights of the car were vanishing round the next bend in the road.
The Saint made his way slowly back up the hill. So that was that, and his wisdom or folly would be proved one way or the other before long. He grinned faintly at the thought of the expression that would come over Peter Quentin's face when he heard the news. She really would be worth a stroll in the moonlight, too, if they weren't so busy…
There was someone in the porch by the front door.
The Saint stopped motionless, with a flitter of impalpable hailstones sweeping up his spine. As he walked with the torch swinging loosely in his hand, its arc of light had passed over a pair of feet, cutting them out of the darkness at the ankles. The glimpse had only been instantaneous, before the moving splash of light lost it again; but Simon knew that he had not been mistaken. He had switched out the torch instinctively before he grasped the full significance of what he had seen.
After a moment he took three soundless steps to the side and switched the light on again, holding it well away from his body. And for a second time he experienced that ghostly tingle of nerves.
For the man was sitting, not standing, on a low bench in the alcove beside the door, with his hands hanging down by his sides and his body hunched forward so that his face was buried in his knees. But although his features were hidden, there was something about the general appearance of the man that struck Simon with a sudden shock of recognition.
"Pargo!" said the Saint sharply.
The figure did not move, and Simon stepped quickly forward and raised its head. One look was enough to tell him that Ernie Pargo was dead.