"That won't help you," said a cool voice at his side; and Flager jerked his head round to see the veiled face of the unknown man who had sat at his side in the car.
"Damn you!" he raved. "What have you done to me?"
He was a large fleshy man, with one of those fleshy faces which look as if their owner had at some time invited God to strike him pink, and had found his prayer instantaneously answered. Simon Templar, who did not like large fleshy men with fleshy pink faces, smiled under his mask.
"So far, we haven't done very much," he said. "But we're going to do plenty."
The quietness of his voice struck Flager with a sudden chill, and instinctively he huddled inside his clothes. Something else struck him as unusual even as he did so, and in another moment he realised what it was. Above the waist, he had no clothes on at all — the whole of his soft white torso was exposed to the inclemency of the air.
The Saint smiled again.
"Start the machine, Peter," he ordered; and Flager saw that the chauffeur who had driven the car was also there, and that he was similarly masked.
A switch clicked over, and darkness descended on the garage. Then a second switch clicked, and the white screen in front of the truck's bonnet lighted up with a low whirring sound. Bewildered but afraid, Flager looked up and saw a free moving picture show.
The picture was of a road at night, and it unrolled towards him as if it had been photographed from behind the headlights of a car that was rushing over it. From time to time, corners, cross-roads, and the lights of other traffic proceeding in both direction swept up towards him — the illusion that he was driving the lorry in which he sat over that road was almost perfect.
"What's this for?" he croaked.