"But he isn't moving!"
"Of course he isn't," leered Essenden. "It has a very strong spring, my little contrivance — and yet the turn of a small key will release it. I have the key in my pocket. But until the key is used, it will go on hurting."
"You — devil!"
The Saint turned his head with a set twisted smile on his lips.
"No vulgar abuse, Jill," he said huskily. "I haven't used any — and I've been lying here ten minutes, and I dropped my gun in the stream and couldn't find it again."
"My dear!"
"God bless you," said the Saint through his teeth, "for those kind words."
She ran to him, falling on her knees beside him, careless of what Essenden might do. The Saint's face was white with pain, but he kept smiling.
And he said, in a ghost of a whisper: "Liar — gun — left-hand coat pocket — you have it. Your need may yet be greater than mine, sister… Watch your chance—"
Essenden came closer. He flung out his left hand in a grandiose gesture.