"I'm thinking about Essenden," she said.
"So it's love," said the Saint.
"I'm wondering—"
"Seriously, why? In the last twenty-four hours we've devoted ourselves entirely to Essenden. Personally, I'm ready to give the subject a rest. We've done our stuff, for the moment. The egg, so to speak, is on hatch. The worm is on the hook. All we can do now, for a while, is to sit tight and wait."
"Do you think he'll rise?"
"I've told you," said the Saint extravagantly, "he'll rise like a loaf overloaded with young and vigorous yeast. He'll rise so high that pheasants and red herrings won't be in the same street with him. When he's finished rising, he'll have such an altitude that he'll have to climb a ladder to take his shoes off. That's what I say. Take it from me, Jill."
The girl stirred her coffee reflectively.
"All the same," she said, "like all fishing, it's a gamble."
"Not with that fish and that bait, it isn't," answered the Saint. "It's a cinch. Look here. We put the wind up his lordship. We fan into his pants a vertical draught strong enough to lift him through his hat. There's no error about that. So what can he do? He must either (a) sit tight and get ready to face the music, ( b ) go out and get run over by a bus, or (c) prepare a counter-attack. Well, he's not likely to do (a). If he does (b), we're saved a lot of trouble and hard work. If he does (c) — "
"Yes," said the girl. "If he does (c) —"