"We can still pull through," she said.
Weald's thin fingers twitched his tie nervously.
"How can you say that after what we know now?"
"We're not dead yet. In your way, you're right, of course. We've tripped over about the most ridiculous little thing that we could have tripped over, and if we aren't careful we'll go stumbling over the edge of the precipice. But I'm not giving an imitation of a jelly in an earthquake."
"Nor am I," said Weald angrily.
The mocking contempt remained in her eyes, and he knew that he was not believed.
With a certain grim concession to her sense of humour she remembered the Saint's warning before they left Belgrave Street. The Saint had certainly been right. In the circumstances, Weald was likely to be very much less use than a tin tombstone. She saw the way he put a hand to cover the twitching of his weak mouth, and realized that Stephen Weald was going to pieces rapidly.
Chapter IV
How Jill Trelawney told a lie, and
Simon Templar spoke nothing but the truth