"But where did you—"
"I'll call you back in a little while," said the Saint. "Keep in touch with your office, give my love to the judge, and I hope you win your case without perjuring yourself."
He hung up on a last imploring squawk from the other end of the wire, and went back to the dining room to close out an interrupted chapter.
He still wanted to hear a little more from Mrs Ourley, and yet he was conscious of time ticking away, and of the vital connections that he had to make. But there was nothing he could ignore, and no prejudice that he could permit to blind him to the reversals of new knowledge.
He sat down again as if no counterplot at all had intervened, and picked up the conversation as smoothly as if he had never been away at all.
"I don't think Milton needs to worry about a little thing like a club membership," he offered. "He must be doing pretty well these days."
"I can't complain," Mrs Ourley said smugly. "Although of course the taxes are frightful and I don't know what we shall do next year if That Man keeps on trying to ruin everybody. But I make Milton save every penny he can; and then I take care of it for him. One of these days, when I've got enough put by, I'm going to buy some War Bonds. I think War Bonds are a wonderful investment… But I know you don't want to be bored with things like that. I don't think any young man, I mean any attractive young man, should ever be bothered about money matters."
"Neither do I," Simon agreed. "But quaintly enough, there isn't any organisation giving away free meals and clothing and alcohol to attractive young men."
The old gleam was in Mrs Ourley's eyes, but her voice burbled on with the same analgesic inanity.
"You just haven't met the right people," she insisted, and eyed the place next to him archly. "Or else you're just too shy with them, making them sit out in the middle of the gangway when there's plenty of room—"