The Saint drove on in silence for a while, and his next remark came as a bolt from the blue.
"Would you object to being arrested?" he asked.
She looked at him.
"I think I should be inclined to object," she said. "Why?"
"Just part of that idea I mentioned recently," said the Saint. "I'll think it out more elaborately overnight, and tell you the whole scheme tomorrow if I think there's anything in it."
She had to be content with that. The air of mystery which had been exasperating her so much of late had somehow grown deeper than ever that night, and he was very taciturn all the rest of the way to Chelsea.
He left her at the studio, and would not even come in for a last drink and cigarette before he went home.
"I want to sleep on it," he said. "It is now after half-past three. I shall be asleep at half-past four, and I shall sleep until half-past four this afternoon. When I wake up I shall have something to come round and tell you."
For his own convenience he had decided to spend the night at the apartment in Sloane Street instead of going bark to Upper Berkeley Mews. He parked the car in a garage close by and walked round to his flat, and, as he crossed the road, he happened to glance up at the windows. Something that he saw there made him halt in his stride, slip his hands in his pockets, and stand there gazing up thoughtfully at the windows for quite a long time. Then he went back to the garage and returned with a couple of spanners from his toolbox.
Standing on the pavement below, he sent one spanner hurtling upwards with an accurate aim. It smashed through one window with a clatter and tinkle of broken glass, and in a moment the second spanner had followed it through another window.