Her voice came from a great distance also in the darkness between them.
"You damn fool," she said. "I worship the ground you walk on. I want you more than I ever wanted anyone in my whole life, or ever will."
They were both very quiet then, as if something had been said which should never have been put into words.
And there were other sounds far away, faint frettings against the monotonous rolling of the sea.
The Saint's fingers touched the hard sharp metal in his trouser pocket for one last assurance, and brought it out. He said very matter-of-factly: "Can you find a match, Avalon?"
She was in movement all around him, and he kept still; and then there was a sudden hurtful flare of light that flickered agonisingly over the scrap of embossed metal that he had taken out of pocket and held towards her in the palm of his hand.
"No," he said, without any inflection. "Not mine. Pat Hogan must have stuck his badge into my pocket as a last desperate resort — as a clue or a signal of some kind. He never knew me from Adam. But he was an undercover man in this racket for the Treasury Department."
2
The match flickered once more and went out, leaving him with the moulding of her face stamped on his memory. And he knew that that was not only printed by one match, but by more lights than he had seen in many years.
"How long have you known that?" she asked.