He had his chance at the Casino that evening. Miss Campion was safely settled at the boule table with a pile of chips, and the Saint looked around and saw Mrs Nussberg emerging majestically from the baccarat room and proceeding towards a table in the lounge. Simon drew a deep breath, straightened his tie, and sauntered after her.
She stared at him belligerently.
“What do you want?”
“I think I owe you an apology,” said the Saint quietly.
“You’ve found that out, have you?” she barked.
A smirking waiter was dusting off the table. Simon sat down opposite her and ordered a fine à l’eau. Parties at adjoining tables were already glancing curiously and expectantly towards them, and the movement cost Simon a clammier effort than anything he had done for a long time.
“That morning a few days ago,” he explained contritely, “you misunderstood me. I wasn’t being fresh. But when you called me down, I sort of forgot myself.”
“I should think you did,” rasped Mrs Nussberg, without friendliness.
“I’m sorry.”
“So you ought to be.”