"Milton!" repeated Mrs Ourley, aghast from her quivering bust to the crimson-tipped toes that protruded through the front of her evening sandals.
"Considering my reputation, the question is not out of order," Simon said equably. "And the answer is that I shall deal with any facts I can get hold of in whatever way I think they would do the most good."
"Well," rasped Ourley, "in that case I'd be seventy-seven kinds of a dab dabbed idiot if I told you anything — if I knew anything, that is," he added hastily.
Simon's gaze was dispassionately unwavering.
"Would you say the same thing to the police or the FBI?"
"You're dabbity dab well right I would. My business is still my own business until these dabbity dab New Dealers take what's left of it away from me."
Uttershaw stepped up with a gold lighter for the cigarette which the Saint was still holding unlighted between his fingers.
"Do you know anything about this iridium black market, Milton?" he inquired curiously.
Ourley's mouth opened, and then closed again like a trap before it parted a second time to let out words.
"I have no information to give anyone," he said; "especially to interfering dab dabs like this. And that's final."