"Anything to oblige," said the Saint affably. "I apologize."
And he contrived to make a second insult of the apology.
The girl had to call up all her resources of self-control to preserve an outward calm. Inwardly she felt all the fury that the Saint had aroused the night before boiling up afresh.
"I wonder," she said, with a strained evenness, "why nobody's ever murdered you, Simon Templar?"
"People have tried," the Saint said mildly. "It's never quite succeeded, somehow. But there's still hope."
He seemed to enjoy the thought. It was quite clear that his detestableness was no unfortunate trick of manner. It was too offensively deliberate. He had brought discourtesy in all its branches to a fine art, and he ladled out his masterpieces with no uncertain enthusiasm.
"How are the Angels this afternoon?" he inquired.
"They are" — she waved a vague hand—"here and there."
"Nice for them. May I sit down?"
"I think—"