"You were hanging over my shoulder and watching everything I did. You couldn't have missed seeing them."
"I wasn't looking at that."
"Besides which, I asked you if the initials O S M meant anything to you."
"They don't."
The Saint took out another cigarette and lighted it from the butt of the last.
"M S O," he said, "in reverse. A subtle touch. But nothing to make a reasonably bright guy rupture a brain cell. In other words, our dear mutual friend."
There was a silence.
The Saint wandered towards the window. It was getting darker, and the skyscraper silhouettes around them were losing their sharpness against the velvet off-blue of the sky. He stood there for a moment or two, looking out.
"M S O," he repeated. "Milton S Ourley. So nice and simple… And I still had to put it together. You ought to have saved me all that trouble."
"I told you—"