For a span of silence he held her eyes steadily — the big golden eyes which, he knew by his own instinct, were made for such gentle things as the softness into which he had betrayed them for a moment. And then that instant's light died out of them again, and the tawny hardness returned. She laughed a little.
"I'll go back when the slate's clean," she said; and so the Saint slipped lightly back into the role he had chosen to play.
"You missed your vocation," he said sweetly. "You ought to have been writing detective stories. Vengeance — and the Angels of Doom! Joke!"
He swung round in his smooth sweeping way and picked his hat out of the chair. Weald seemed about to say something, and, meeting the Saint's suddenly direct and interrogative gaze, refrained. Simon looked at the girl again.
"I'm leaving," he said. "We shall meet again. Quite soon. I promised to get you in three weeks, and two and a half days of it have gone. But I'll do it, don't you worry!"
"I'm not worrying, Templar. And next time you give me your word of honour—"
"Be suspicious of everything I say," Simon advised. "I have moments of extreme cunning, as you'll get to know. Good-afternoon, sweetheart."
He went put, leaving the door open, and walked down the stairs. He saw Pinky Budd standing in the hall with six men drawn up impassively behind him; but it would have taken more than that, at any time, to make Simon Templar's steps falter.
The girl spoke from the top of the stairs.
"Mr. Templar is leaving, Pinky. His men are waiting for him outside."