"Then I hope you will take great care," said the Saint.
The Italian was starting to push the door in his face, but Simon pushed harder, and walked in.
"What do you want?" asked Gugliemi again, and this time he asked it more dangerously.
Simon carefully detached a fragment of cobweb from his sleeve. He was in his dinner jacket, without hat or overcoat, and his shirt gleamed snowy white in the dim light.
"I really don't want you to think me interfering, Signor Oleaqua," said the Saint diffidently. "But don't you think it's time you let Miss Trelawney go home?"
"I know nothing about Mees Trelawney."
"But, my dear Signor Gazebo," protested the Saint, in accents of shocked innocence, "think of the proprieties! Think of what the bishop would say if he knew that you were alone with a fair lady at this hour!"
"I do not understand," said Gugliemi stubbornly. "I know no Mees Trelawney, I tell you."
The Saint's eyebrows lifted half an inch.
"Really?" he said. "But a friend of yours has just told me that he brought her here with you."