"So that we could start fighting again — all square?.. Yes, I should think we can call it quits."
"I suppose you'd like to take my gun?"
"Please."
She was fumbling in her bag, and the Saint was not watching her. He was smoking his cigarette and beaming with an infuriating smugness at Harry Donnell. About two seconds ago, his own weird intuition had raised an eyelid and wrinkled a thin hairline of clairvoyant light across his brain; and he knew exactly what was going to happen. There was just one little thing left that had to happen before the adventure took the twist that it had always been destined to take. And the Saint was not bothered about it at all, for he had his immoral views on these matters of private business. He had taken no further notice of Weald since he had dropped him to the floor. He had not even troubled to search Weald's pockets. And when he turned his head at the sound of the shot, he saw the automatic half-out of Weald's pocket, and the man lying still, and turned again to smile at another gun.
"Don't move," said Jill Trelawney quietly, and the Saint shook his head.
"Jill, you really mustn't commit murder in the presence of respectable policemen. If it happens again—"
"Never mind that," said the girl curtly.
"Oh, but I do," said the Saint. "May I smoke, or would you prefer to dance?"
The girl leaned against the wall, one hand on her hip, and the shining little nickelled automatic in the other.
"Your nerves are good, Simon Templar," she remarked coolly.