"And what are your views," asked the Saint conversationally, "on the subject of supralapsarianism? They should be valuable. Only a few hours ago—"
"All right," snarled Gugliemi. "I find you Mees Trelawney. Only put that gun away."
"Not till I know you aren't going to pull any more slapstick comedy, sweetheart," said the Saint. "Where is she?"
"Upstairs."
"Dear — me!" The automatic nuzzled again into Gugliemi's fancy waistcoat. "I hope you haven't been forgetting your manners?"
"I will show you."
"You certainly will," said the Saint pleasantly. "But I'm afraid that if you have been forgetting your manners, I shall be forced to do things to you which will be not only painful, but permanently discouraging. Lead on, Rudolph."
Gugliemi led on, and the Saint followed him into the upper room. He saw the light that came to the girl's eyes as he entered, and bowed to her with a laugh — the entrance happened too obviously upon its cue, and anything like that was bliss and beauty for the Saint, who was nothing if not melodramatic. And he turned again to the Italian.
"Remove the whatnots," he ordered operatically.
Gugliemi bent shakily to obey. The straps fell from the girl's wrists, then from her ankles.