"Good," said the Saint. "I'll be over there in just a little while too."
"I was able to fix it with the hotel and get to the judge," persisted the voice, rather mournfully. "At this time of night, that's not so easy."
"Congratulations," said the Saint. "You must be persona very grata."
There was a brief hiatus where the city editor silenced as if he was digging out a new lead.
"I liked the way you talked to that man Vaschetti," he excavated at length, "and I think I ought to talk to you the same way. I'll hold everything while you bring in your story; but I have to live here too. So whatever you bring in, I'll have to turn over to the police and the FBI."
"I'll give you a personal commendation for your fine public spirit," said the Saint.
He could see the pear-shaped figure with its feet on the desk and the battered hat tilted over the eyes that were the only sparkle in the dried poker face, as if it were sitting directly in front of him.
"You've said things that sounded as if you had a hell of a lot of inside dope on this case," said the city editor finally. "What are you doing in Galveston anyway, and why don't you give me the whole story and earn yourself some real dough?"
"I'll think about it," said the Saint, "after I've talked to Vaschetti again."
He dropped the phone, and tried to resume relations with his highball.