"You'll know better next time, won't you?" Little flinty jags of amusement twinkled in his eyes. "What was the joke I was supposed to buy? Pinky Budd waiting downstairs in the hall with a handful of Angels? Or just a button you press up here that starts off the trapdoor and the electric banister rail and the mechanical gadget in the thirteenth stair?"
She faced him, flaming now without the slightest attempt at concealment, suddenly transformed into a beautiful tigress.
"You think you're clever — Saint!"
"I'm darn sure of it," murmured the Saint, modestly.
"You think—"
"Often and brilliantly. I kicked up the rug before I stepped on it, and saw the edge of the trap. I'm always suspicious of iron banister rails on indoor staircases. And the thirteenth stair gave an inch under my weight, so I ducked. But nothing happened. Rather lucky for you the things weren't working — in the circumstances — isn't it?"
It was bewildering to think that the girl, according to official records, was only twenty-two. Simon Templar treated her like a petulant child because it pleased him to do so. But in that moment he recognized her anger as a grown reality with nothing childish in it. That he chose to keep the recognition to himself was nobody's business.
"No one will stop you going back to your posse, Templar."
"I didn't think anyone would."
He glanced at his watch.