"No use," he breathed. "I'm goner… Poured — gasoline — on me… Set fire…"
"Who did?" Simon insisted. "What happened?"
"Three men… Met last night — in bar… Blatt… Weinbach… And Maris… Going to party — at Olga's…"
"Where?"
"Don't know…"
"What's your name? Who are you?"
"Henry — Stephens," croaked the dying man. "Ostrich-skin — leather case — in gladstone lining… Get case — and send… send…"
His voice trailed off into an almost inaudible rasp that was whisked away along with his spirit on the wings of the wind that swept across the flats. Henry Stephens was dead, mercifully for him, leaving Simon Templar with a handful of unexplained names and words and a decided mess.
"And damn it," said the Saint unreasonably, to no better audience than the circling gulls, "why do people like you have to read that kind of mystery story? Couldn't one of you wait to die, just once, until after you'd finished saying what you were trying to get out?"
He knew what was the matter with him, but he said it just the same. It helped him to get back into the shell which too many episodes like that had helped to build around him.