"We hardly expected you," said the girl.
"Your error," said the Saint comfortably.
He tossed his hat into a chair and glanced back at the door which had just closed behind him.
"I don't like your line in butlers," he said. "I suppose you know that Frederick Wells has a very eccentric record. Aren't you afraid he might disappear with the silver?"
"Wells is an excellent servant."
"Fine! And how's Pinky?"
"Budd is out at the moment. He'll be right back."
"Fine again!" The mocking blue eyes absorbed Stephen Weald from the feet upwards. "And what position does this freak hold in the establishment? Pantry boy?"
Weald gnawed his lip and said nothing. There was a cross of sticking plaster over the bruised cut in his chin to remind him that a man like Simon Templar is apt to confuse physical violence with abstract repartee. Stephen Weald felt cautious.
"Mr. Weald is a friend of mine," said the girl, "and I'd be obliged if you'd refrain from insulting him in my house."