"After I leave here."
"D'you think you're leaving?" interjected Weald.
"I'm sure of it," said the Saint calmly. "Slinky Dyson will let me out. He's an old friend of mine."
The girl opened the door. Dyson was outside.
"Here's your friend the Saint," she said.
"Hullo, Slinky," said the Saint. "How's the eye?"
Dyson slouched into the room.
"Search him," ordered Weald.
Dyson obeyed, doing the job with ungentle hands. Simon made no resistance. In the circumstances that would only have been a mediocre way of committing suicide.
"How true you run to type, Jill!" he murmured. "This is just what I was expecting. And now, of course, you'll tell me that I'm going to be kept here as your prisoner until you choose to let me go. Or are you going to lock me in the cellar and leave the hose running? That was tried once. Or perhaps you're going to ask me to join your gang. That'd be quite original."