"But you're not going like a lamb," she cried. "Aren't you even going to try to do something?"
That gay and careless smile flashed across his face. "My dear old Aunt Harriet always said that as long as there's life there's life. Thanks for the drinks, Doctor."
He was gone, walking straight as a magician's wand between Scar-chin and Spaniel-Eyes. Their passage between the tables was leisurely and attracted no notice, aside from a bold and admiring glance now and then from women lunchers. They might have been three executives headed back to their marts, or three friends popping off to green and manicured pastures to chase a pellet of gutta percha from one hole to another. Certainly no one would have suspected that the Saint was a prisoner — in fact, any speculations would have tended to reverse their roles.
But under his calm exterior, thought processes moved at incredible speed, toying with this idea, discarding that. He didn't put it beyond himself to stage a spectacular escape as soon as they were outside but on the other hand it would be no help to him to become a fugitive. He even wondered whether Dr. Zellermann's system of psychological projection had anticipated an attempt to escape and was even now listening with one ear for the rattle of shots which would mean that the shadow of the Saint's interference had perhaps been lifted permanently.
Simon saw too many arguments against obliging him. His best bet at the moment seemed to be discretion, watchful waiting, and the hope that the cell they gave him to try on for size would have southern exposure.
Spaniel-Eyes hailed a cab. Scar-chin climbed in first, followed by the Saint, and Spaniel-Eyes gave short inaudible directions to the driver.
"Well," the Saint said after a few moments of riding, "how about a swift game of gin rummy?"
"Shaddup," Spaniel-Eyes said, and looked, at his watch.
"By the way," Simon asked, "what are visiting hours in the local calaboza?"
"Shaddup," Spaniel Eyes said.