The Saint stepped aside. A lounging waiter realized what was happening too late, and started forward with an outraged yap, but the picture was out of the frame and shredded into small fragments by that time.
Simon held them out on his open hand.
“Do these belong to you?” he inquired gently, and the man suddenly looked up and found the Saint’s blue eyes fastened levelly upon him, as hard and wintry as frosted sapphires.
The eyes were quite calm, utterly devoid of open menace, but there was something in them that choked his instinctive retort in his throat. Something in the eyes, and the tuned softness of the voice that spoke past them.
He shook his head mutely, astounded at his own silence, and the Saint smiled genially and dropped the torn relics at his feet.
On the front of the Casino there were banners and posters proclaiming the regular weekly gala.
“Are you going?” asked Simon casually.
The bright defensive eyes switched to him sidelong.
“Are you?”
“I hadn’t thought about it.”