"Sit down," snapped Weald.
Simon sat down as if he had been meaning to do so all the time.
Jill Trelawney was at the telephone. The Saint observed her out of the corner of his eye while he selected and lighted a cigarette from his case. He waited quite patiently while she tried to make the call, but he feigned surprise when she failed.
"That really upsets me," he said. "Now you'll have to go to Birmingham yourself. I hate to think I'm putting you to so much inconvenience."
He saw Budd busying himself with some loose rope, and when the ex-prize fighter came over with the obvious intention of binding him, the Saint put his hands behind him without being told to. Weald was talking to the girl.—
"Do you really mean to go to Birmingham?"
"Yes. It's the only thing to do. I can't get in touch with Donnell by telephone, and it wouldn't be safe to send a wire."
"And suppose it's a trap?"
"You can suppose it's what you like. The Saint's clever. But I think I've got the hang of him now. It's just a repetition of that posse joke. He's come to tell us that he's going to get Donnell just because he thinks we won't believe it. And if he does get Donnell, Donnell will squeal. If you've got cold feet you can stay here. But I'm going. Budd can go with me if you don't like it. He'll be more use than you, anyway."
"I'll go with you."