"Excuse me," said the Saint.
He stepped quickly to the door, and turned the key in the lock. Then he picked the table up and jammed it into the defense for ballast, with one edge under the handle of the door and the other slanting into the floor.
"That'll hold Donnell's boys for three or four minutes," he said.
She smiled.
"While I slip out through the tunnel?"
"While we slip out through the tunnel."
He saw the perplexity that narrowed her eyes, the hesitant parting of her lips, but he saw these things only in a sidelong glimpse as he crossed to the side of Harry Donnell. And he saw the vindictive resignation that twisted Donnell's mouth, and laughed.
"Sorry to trouble you again," said the Saint.
His fist shot up like the hoof of a plunging cayuse. But this time the Saint had had one essential fraction of a second more in which to meditate his manoeuvre — and that made all the difference in the world. And this time Donnell went down and stayed down in a peaceful sleep.
"Which is O. K.," drawled the Saint, after one professional glance at the sleeper.