“Don’t be a fool!” snapped the Saint metallically. “What sort of help is that going to be to Greta?”
The old man’s struggling arms went limp, gradually. He gazed dumbly back, trying to understand. His throat moved twice, convulsively, before his voice came.
“Dot’s right... Dot’s right... I must look after Greta. Und she is so young...”
Simon let him go, and he went weakly past, around the corner into the main corridor.
The Saint lighted a cigarette and inhaled deeply. It had been close enough... And once again he gave himself that mental shake, feathering himself down to that ice-cold clarity of purpose in which any adventurer’s best work must be done. It was a tough break for the old German, but Simon couldn’t keep his mind solely on that. He didn’t want to. Such distractions as the rescuing of potential damn-fool suicides from sticky ends disturbed the even course of buccaneering. Voyson was on the train, and the ungodly prospered only that a modern pirate might loot them.
A little way further down the carriage Simon found the financier sitting in a first-class compartment by himself. The Saint eased back the door and stepped through, sliding it shut behind him. He stood with his sandwich in one hand and his cigarette in the other, balancing himself lightly against the sway.
“A word with you,” he said.
3
Voyson looked up.
“Who are you?” he demanded irritably.