"What was the book?"
"Just a piece of some guy's autobiography. However, when I went to pick it up, it was gone. A man named Nick Vaschetti had it earlier in the evening. He hadn't finished with it — but he has now. I suppose you wouldn't know where it is?"
Her eyes were still pools of emerald in the mask of her face.
"Why do you say that?" She seemed to have difficulty in articulating.
"Lots of people read. It occurred to me—"
"I mean that this — this Vaschetti — hadn't finished with the book — but he has now?"
"He's given up reading," explained the Saint carelessly. "He was so upset about having the book taken away from him that he stepped out of an eighth-floor window — with the help of a couple of your pals."
He watched the warm ivory of her face fade and freeze into alabaster.
"He's — dead?"
"Well," said the Saint, "it was a long drop to the sidewalk, and on account of the rubber shortage he didn't bounce so well."