The Saint said: "No."
"Why?" wheedled Titania Ourley.
"Because you don't have to try and pump me for information like you did at the Algonquin, because I'm not investigating your personal nastiness or your husband's subrosa activities. That's been taken over by the — oh, Lord — proper authorities. Because you can read the newspapers for anything it's good for you to know. Because I hate to rumba. And," said the Saint, with dispassionate deliberation, "because you not only look like a cow, but you smell like tuberoses on a fresh grave."
He put the telephone back on its rest and lighted a cigarette but he had barely brought it alive when the bell rang again.
The operator said: "I have a call from Washington."
"Hamilton," said the telephone, with pleasant precision. "Nice work, Simon."
"Thank you," said the Saint.
"I just wish that one of these days you'd bring 'em back alive. There is such a thing as good propaganda, if you don't know it."
The Saint hitched himself more comfortably on to his bed, and adjusted his bathrobe over his long legs. His mind was clouded with many memories, and yet the core of it was clear and sure and without remorse.
"Uttershaw wasn't such a bad fellow, in his own way," he said. "I guess my hand must have slipped. But if he had any time to think, I think he would have liked that."