Mr. Journ looked up. There was a subtle implication in the way the words were said which struck a supernatural chill into his blood. And in the next second he knew why; for his lifting eyes looked straight into the muzzle of an automatic.
Slowly Mr. Journ's eyes dilated. He stopped breathing. A cold intangible hand closed round his heart in a vice-like grip; and the muscles of his face twitched spasmodically.
"But you can't do that!" he screamed suddenly. "You can't take it all!"
"That is a matter of opinion," said the Saint equably; and then, before Mr. Journ really knew what was happening, a strong brown hand had shot out and grasped the brief-bag and twitched it out of Mr. Journ's desperate grip with a deft twist that was too quick for the eye to follow.
With a guttural gasp Sumner Journ lurched forward to tear it back, and found himself pushed away like a child!
"Now don't be silly," said the Saint. "I don't want to hurt you — much. You've lived like a prince for four years on the sucker crop, and a bloke like you can always think up a new racket. Don't take it so much to heart. Disguise yourself and make a fresh start. Shave off your moustache, and no one will recognise you."
"But what am I going to do?" Sumner Journ shrieked at him as he seated himself again in the car. "How am I going to get away?"
Simon stopped with his foot on the clutch.
"Bless my soul!" he said. "I almost forgot."
He dipped a long arm into the tonneau and brought up a small article which he pushed into Mr. Journ's trembling hands. Then the great car leapt away with a sudden roar from the exhaust, and Mr. Journ was left staring at his consolation prize with a face that had gone ashen grey.