"Thank you," he said; and his eyes were still on Varetti.
"That's okay, pal." The big bulk of Kestry shouldered across his view, heavy-jawed and unfriendly-eyed. "How did you get here?"
For the first time Simon looked at him, and put the gun away in his pocket.
"It's my room," he mentioned calmly. "I was here when they arrived. Now you can take them away. They bother me."
"They won't bother you any more. They're both three-timers, an' they'll get the book thrown at them."
"That's fine," said the Saint cynically. "Unless they get the right lawyer. They've probably done it before."
"They won't do it this time. Not after they've sung. And they'll sing." Kestry was certain and unemotional like a rock, and no more changed or changeable. He said, without any alteration of stance or stare: "I still want to know more about you."
"Why don't you read a newspaper?"
"You just put a gun in your pocket. That makes it a concealed weapon. Where did you get it, an' where's your permit?"
The Saint put his cigarette to his lips and drew at it with a light easy breath.