"Is this another of your funny stories?"
"It is." The Saint sighed. "In fact, it's one of my best. Do you know, Jill, I'm afraid you're going to get in a devil of a muddle about me, aren't you? First the business of the posse, then this. Now, do you think I'm telling you the truth in the hope that you will think I'm bluffing and fall into the trap, or do you think I'm inventing the yarn to keep you away from a man I don't want you to have? I can't help thinking that some of these questions are going to make life very difficult for you for the next few days."
She tapped her cigarette delicately on the edge of an ashtray.
"Is that all you came to say?" she asked patiently.
"Not quite," said the Saint, in that tone of gentle mockery that would have been like sandpaper rasped across the nerves of anyone less self-possessed. "I just wanted to ask one thing — about your father."
She faced him.
"Haven't I told you," she said dangerously, "to leave my father out of this?"
"I know," said the Saint. "And I've told you that I shall bring anyone into it whom I choose to bring in. So we know where we are. And now listen to this. I've been making some inquiries about your father, and I've come on a name which interests me. It may mean something to you. The name is — Waldstein."
She stared at him narrowly.
"Well?"