"Well, well, well. We certainly do lead a hectic life. Never dull moment."
Her gaze was wondering.
"You jest in the face of certain death. Are you a fatalist, or are you only a fool?"
"I've certainly acted like a fool," Simon admitted ruefully. "But as for this death business — that shouldn't lose you any sleep. You didn't have any nightmares over Matson, did you?"
"I have seen too much to have nightmares," she said wearily. "But I give you my word that I have never had a hand in any murder. I didn't know they were going to kill Matson. I knew nothing about him, except that he was one of their men, and I was told to amuse him. But after he had been killed — what could I do? I couldn't bring him back to life, or even prove that they did it. And Vaschetti. I thought Vaschetti was safe in jail when I…"
"When you what?"
"When I went to his room this afternoon to see if I could find — anything."
The Saint wondered if the blow on his head had done something to him. He looked at her through a film of unreality.
He said: "Such as a diary of names and places?"
"Anything. Anything I could find. I thought he might have kept something, and I wanted it."