"But I'm damned if I know," he said, "why the hell you should be so concerned. Brother Stephens wasn't cremated within the city limits."
"There's bound to be a hook-up with something inside the city, and we work with the Sheriff and he works with us. I'm trying to save myself some time."
"On the job of checking up on me?"
"Maybe."
"Then why not let Yard worry about it? I'm sure he'd love to pin something on me."
"Yeah," Kinglake assented between puffs of smoke. "He could get on your nerves at times, but don't let him fool you. He's a first-rate detective. Good enough for the work we do here."
"I haven't the slightest doubt of it," Simon assured him. "But I've told you everything I know, and every word of it happens to be true. However, I don't expect that to stop you trying to prove I did it. So get started. This is your inspiration."
Kinglake still didn't start fighting.
"I know that your story checks as far as it goes," he said. "I smelt the liquor on that dead guy's mouth, and I saw your coat. I'm not believing that you'd waste good whisky and ruin a good coat just to build up a story — yet. But I do want to know what your business is in Galveston."
The Saint had expected this.