"You know this man is the Saint, a notorious criminal, wanted in various parts of the world for such things as murder, blackmail, kidnaping, and so forth?"
"Not wanted for, chum," the Saint corrected him amiably. "Merely suspected of."
Scar-chin looked at his partner, a man with sad spaniel eyes. "Guess we better go."
Spaniel Eyes laid a hand on the Saint's arm.
"One moment," Simon said. This was said quietly, but there was the sound of bugles in the command. Spaniel Eyes withdrew his arm. The Saint looked at Zellermann. "Your information came from somewhere. You didn't deduce this by yourself and so lay a trap. Did Avalon tip you off?"
"Oh, Simon!" she cried. "No, darling, no!"
Her voice was brimming with anguish and outrage. Real or simulated, the Saint couldn't tell. He didn't look at her. He held the doctor's eyes with his own.
Dr. Zellermann showed no expression whatever. He looked at the Saint woodenly, with a supreme disinterest. He might have been watching a fly he was about to swat.
"Once one understands a certain type of mind," Dr. Zellermann said almost contemptuously, "predictions of action patterns are elementary—"
"My dear Watson," the Saint supplied.