"Have it your own way."
She came back to watch Budd putting the finishing touches to the Saint's roping.
"You'll be pleased to hear," she said, "that for once I'm going to believe you."
"So I heard," said the Saint. "Hope you have a nice journey. Will you leave Dyson to look after me? I'm sure he'd treat me very kindly."
She shook her head.
"Budd," she said, "will be even kinder."
It was a blow at the very foundations of the scheme which the Saint had built up, but not a muscle of his face betrayed his feelings.
He spoke to her as if there were no one else in the room, holding her eyes in spite of herself with that mocking stare of his.
"Jill Trelawney," he said, "you're a fool. If there were degrees in pure, undiluted imbecility I should give you first prize. You're going to Birmingham with Weald. When you get there you're going to walk into a pile of trouble. Weald will be as much use to you as a tin tombstone. Not that the thought worries me, but I'm just telling you now, and I'd like you to remember it afterwards. Before to-night you're going to wish you'd been born with some sort of imitation of a brain. That's all. I shall see you again in Birmingham — don't worry."
She smiled, with a lift of her eyebrows.