He lost his bet by a comfortable margin, for Hamilton was away from Washington that night; and the far-reaching results of that delay were interesting to contemplate long afterwards.
A little after ten the next morning, a rather rotund and unobtrusive gentleman with the equally unobtrusive name of Harry Eldon presented Fernack with his credentials from the Department of Justice and said: "I'm sorry, but we've got to exercise our priority and take Templar out of your hands. "We want him rather badly ourselves."
Somewhat to his own mystification, the detective found that he didn't know whether to feel frustrated or relieved or worried.
He took refuge in an air of gruff unconcern.
"If you can keep him where he belongs, it'll be a load off my mind," he said.
"You haven't made any statement about his arrest yet?"
"Not yet."
Fernack could never have admitted that he had been sufficiently impressed by the Saint's warning, combined with the saddening recollection of previous tragic disappointments, to have forced himself to take a cautious breathing spell before issuing the defiant proclamation that was simmering in his insides.
"That's a good thing. You'd better just forget this as well," Eldon said enigmatically. "Those are my orders."
He took Simon Templar out with him, holding him firmly by the arm; and they rode uptown in a taxi.