"By the way," he said casually, "you'd better get a move on with this scramming act. Kinglake is going to have to call Headquarters in a few minutes. You can scram in my car — it won't take me more than ten minutes to check out of the Alamo House. Go and put some things in a bag."
"Yes," she said, impassively and obediently; and went out of the room.
Simon smoked his inherited cigarette with unalloyed enjoyment.
Kinglake gathered the papers on the desk together ind frowned over them wisely.
The Saint made another search of the unlamented ungodly, and found his own automatic in Weinbach's pocket. He nested it affectionately back in his clip holster.
The Lieutenant gazed yearningly at the telephone, tightened a spartan stopper on a reawakening ebullience of questions, and got out another of his miasmic cigars.
Olga Ivanovitch came in again.
She had changed into a simple gray suit with plain white trimmings. Her honey-colored hair was all in place again, and her face was cool and freshly sweetened. She looked younger than Simon had ever remembered her. She carried a pair of suitcases. King-lake really looked at her.
Simon hitched himself off the corner of the desk where he had perched.
"Well," he said, "let's be on our way."