He found Orace dabbing an ear with a stained handkerchief.
"Hurt?"
"Nossir — just a splinter er wood. They were firin' low."
"It's more painful through the stomach," said the Saint enigmatically, and went on upstairs.
The pursuit of the car from which the machine gun had been fired wasn't Simon Templar's business. It could be carried on just as effectively by the regulars — or just as ineffectively, for the number plates were certain to have been changed. But it made the Saint think.
When the assistant commissioner called in later for the story, however, Simon showed no signs of perturbation.
"It was Budd's idea, of course. He's seen service in Chicago. But machine guns in the streets of London are nothing new on me — I've had it happen before. There's no blamed originality in this racket, that's the trouble."
"They seem to think you're important."
"There's certainly some personal bias against me," admitted the Saint innocently. "I was expecting a demonstration — I had further words with Jill Trelawney yesterday. Cigarette?"
"Thanks."