"I ain't so old," said the Saint aggrievedly. "And if it comes ter 'aving fun wif a jine—"
A figure loomed over the table and mopped officiously over it with a checkered rag. The hand on the rag was pale and long-fingered, and Simon noticed that the fingernails were painted with a violet-tinted lacquer.
Hardly daring to believe that anything so good could be true, the Saint let his eyes travel up to the classical features and pleated golden hair of the owner of that exotic manicure.
It was true. It was Ferdinand Pairfield.
Mr. Pairfield looked at the Saint, speculatively, but without a trace of recognition; discarded him, and smirked at the more youthful and rugged-looking Hogan.
"Any complaints, boys?" he asked whimsically.
"Yes," Hogan said flatly. "I don't like the help around here."
Mr. Pairfield pouted.
"Well, you don't have to be rude" he said huffily, and went away.
"The only thing wrong with this place," Hogan observed sourly, "is all those pretty boys. I dunno why they'd be lettin' them in, but they're always here."