“Tell me how,” invited the Saint, but his smile was still a glitter of clean-cut marble.
“Wait till we get to Mainz. There are plenty of people on this train. What are you going to do — walk me out of the station under that gun in broad daylight? I’d like to see you do it. I’ll call your bluff!”
“Still hankering for that publicity?”
“I’ve got to have those tickets,” said Voyson, with his chest laboring. “And my money. I’ve got to get to Batavia. You won’t stop me! I shan’t have to stay behind to make any charges. Your having a gun will be enough — and my money and tickets on you. I know the numbers of all those bills, and the tickets are signed with my name. The police’ll be glad to see you!” Voyson’s hands were clenching and twitching spasmodically. “I think I read about you being in trouble here some time ago, didn’t I?”
Simon said nothing, and Voyson’s voice picked up. It grew louder than it need have done, almost as if the financier was trying to bolster up his own confidence with the sound of it.
“The German police wanted you pretty badly then! You’re the Saint, eh? It’s a good thing you told me.”
“You make things very difficult, brother,” said the Saint.
His quietness was unruffled, almost reflective, yet to any man in his senses that very quietness should have flared with warnings. Voyson was beyond seeing them. He leaned forward with the red pin-point in his stare glittering.
“I want it to,” he raved. “You’ve come to the wrong man with your nonsense. I’ll give you thirty seconds to hand back my tickets—”
“One moment,” said the Saint.