"Fernack told you what to do," he said. "If you want to write in a new scene for yourself, you're on your own. Otherwise, I wish you'd just drag the bodies out. I'm in a hurry."
Kestry's eyes were bitter and glistening, the Saint's cool and bright like chips of sapphire with indefinable gleams of insolence shifting over them. It was a clash from which tinder might have been ignited at close range. But the measure of Kestry's defeat, and the value of its future repercussions, were plain in the heavy viciousness with which he turned back to his captives.
"Let's get 'em out of here, Dan," he said.
He grasped Varetti's arm in a ham-like fist and yanked him off the couch, while his partner performed a similar service for Walsh. Cokey let out a yelp as the steel bracelets cut into his wrists.
"Shut up, you," growled Bonacci. "That ain't nothing to what you're gonna get."
He shoved the two men roughly towards the door.
Kestry took a last pointless look around, and followed. How-evcr, he turned to favor the Saint with one lingering farewell glower.
"It still don't seem right to be goin' out of here without you," he said; and the Saint smiled at him sweetly.
"You must drop in again," he murmured, "and get used to it."
He waited until the door had slammed after the departing populace, and then he picked up the telephone and called Centre Street.