He turned abruptly on his heel, and walked in an aimless way towards the bookcase.
And thought what an immortal laugh it would be if after so much staging the clock in his mind had never been really right.
And what a picturesque finale it all was…
"Our death is but a sleep and a forgetting," Uttershaw said gently; and the Saint stood still.
"I hope that will make you very happy," he said.
He thought that Inspector Fernack had delayed his entrance to the last possible filament of suspense, doubtless with all conceivable malice aforethought, and then chosen a peculiarly dangerous moment for it. But he admitted to himself that he had helped to ask for that.
And the temptation to repay the performance was almost more than he could resist, but he knew at the same time that that filament was too fragile to risk even with a breath.
He seemed to have no emotional feeling at all; but he had his own. quality of mercy that was apart from all the other things.
As the door burst open, and Fernack lumbered in, and Utter-shaw whirled at the sound, Simon Templar took his gun out of the vase of chrysanthemums and fired as carefully as if he had been on a target range.