Belinda Deane knocked on the door of his hotel bedroom in Munich at half past twelve, which was less than an hour after his breakfast, and he put down his razor and went cheerfully to let her in.
“I... I’m sorry,” she said, when she saw him.
“Why?” Simon asked. “Don’t you approve of this dressing gown?”
He returned to the mirror and calmly resumed the scraping of his face. The girl stood with her back to the door, twisting a scrap of handkerchief in her fingers.
“Mr Templar,” she said, “my bag’s been stolen.”
“How did that happen?”
“It was in my room. I... I left it for a few minutes, and when I came back it was gone!”
“Too bad,” murmured the Saint gravely.
He turned the angle of his jawbone with care, stretching his head sideways. His unruffled accents held a sublime and seraphic saintliness of innocence which in itself was a volume of explanation for his nickname. It took the girl’s breath away for a moment, and then she froze over.
“Too bad,” she said coldly, “is putting it mildly. It had all my money in it, and my letter of credit, and my passport — everything. I’ve never been in such a mess in my life. What am I going to do?”