Slinky closed his eyes sanctimoniously.
"My conscience," he said, "wouldn't allow me to do a thing like that, Mr. Templar."
"You'll remember," the Saint reminded him persuasively, "that I could get you sent down for six months' hard right now."
Dyson blinked.
"If it wasn't for my principles," he said sadly, "I'd be very happy to oblige you, Mr. Templar."
Eventually, when he found that the Saint had no intention of raising his price, except in the matter of ten pounds instead of five for the black eye, he managed to choke down his conscience and accept. Simon arranged for him to be brought before the magistrate again the next morning, when he would be released, and started back to Scotland Yard in a taxi. But on the way he had an idea.
"The machine gun," he reflected, "was Pinky's voluntary. Weald would have thought of the prussic acid in the milk. We're still waiting for Jill's contribution — and it might be very cunning to meet it halfway."
The inspiration, duly considered, appealed to him; and he gave fresh instructions to the driver.
The door of the house in Belgrave Street was a long time opening in response to his peal on the bell. Perhaps to make up for this, it was very quick in starting to shut again as soon as Frederick Wells had recognized the caller. But Simon Templar was more than ordinarily skilful at thrusting himself in where he was not wanted.
"Not good enough, Freddie," he drawled regretfully, and closed the door himself — from the inside.