Teal gave the order; and they sat and looked at each other in silence until the exhibits arrived. Teal's silence explained in fifty different ways that the Saint would be refused no facilities for nailing down his coffin in a manner that he would never be allowed to forget; but for some reason his facial register was not wholly convincing. When they were alone again, Simon went to the desk, picked up the gun, and put it in the box. It fitted very well.
"That's what happened, Claud," he said with quiet triumph. "They gave him the gun in the box."
"And he shot himself without knowing what he was doing," Teal said witheringly.
"That's just it," said the Saint, with a blue devil of mockery in his gaze. "He didn't know what he was doing."
Mr. Teal's molars clamped down cruelly on the inoffensive merchandise of the Wrigley Corporation.
"Well, what did he think he was doing — sitting under a rug pretending to be a bear?"
Simon sighed.
"That's what I'm trying to work out."
Teal's chair creaked as his full weight slumped back in it in hopeless exasperation.
"Is that what you've been taking up so much of my time about?" he asked wearily.