"Thanks." He sat down. "But don't let me stop you thinking."
She took a cigarette from the box beside her and fitted it into a long amber holder. Weald applied a match.
"You forgot to ask me if I minded," said the Saint reproachfully. "Where are your manners, Jill?"
She turned in her chair — a movement far more abrupt than she meant it to be.
"If the police have to pester me," she said, "I should have appreciated their consideration if they'd sent a gentleman to do it."
"Sorry," said Simon. "Our gentlemen are all out pestering ladies. The chief thought I'd be good enough for you. Backchat. However, I'll pass on your complaint when I get back."
"If you get back."
"This afternoon," said the Saint. "And I shan't worry if he takes me off the job. Man-size criminals are my mark, and footling around with silly little girls like you is just squandering my unique qualities as a detective. More backchat."
Weald butted in, from the other side of the room:
"Jill, why do you waste time—"