The Saint filled his cigarette-case from a fresh pack, and lighted the last one left over, and said: "Thanks."
"I had a message to give you," Eldon said laconically. "It says that this had better be good. Or somebody else's neck will be under the axe."
"It will be good," said the Saint.
"Where do you want to be let off?"
"Any drug store will do. I want to look in a phone book."
It was just a chance that Barbara Sinclair's apartment would be listed under her name; but it was. It lay just off Fifth Avenue, across from the park.
When Simon arrived there, he found that it was one of those highly convenient buildings with a self-service elevator and no complications in the way of inquisitive doormen, which are such a helpful accessory to the vie boheme.
He rode up to the floor where he had found her name listed in the hall, and rang the bell. After a reasonable pause, he rang it again. There was still no answer; and he proceeded to inspect the lock with professional penetration. It was the usual Yale type, but the way it was set in the door promised very little opposition to a man whom the master cracksmen of two continents had been heard to mention with respect. He took a thin strip of flexible metal from a special compartment in the back of his wallet, and went to work with unhurried confidence.
It took him less than a minute, and he went into a living-room which could have served as a model of relaxing and fussless cosiness to any lady who wanted her gentleman friends to feel much better than at home.
He took three steps into the room, and a syrupy voice said: "The hands up and clasped behind the back of the neck, please, Mr Templar."