"You must be made out of iron, Tom," Zellermann said admiringly, and as if he had learned the formula from a book. "You just about put us all under the table. We were going to bed."
The Saint staggered closer to him.
"I bin to bed once," he said. "But I'm thirsty. Honestergawd. Coudden I 'ave just one more drop before closing time?"
Then his wandering gaze seemed to catch sight of Hogan for the first time.
"Swelp me," he said, "that's 'im! The bugger 'oo 'it me! All tied up shipshake so 'e 'as ter be'yve. Just lemme 'ave one crack at' im—"
"Patrick just had too much to drink," Zellermann said. "We're trying to get him to bed..."
He actually moved closer, suavely and with almost contemptuous skill, interposing himself between Simon and the uglier details of his specialized treatment for intoxication.
The Saint blinked at him blearily, swaying another step and two steps nearer.
It looked fine and perfect until the doctor's glance suddenly switched and hardened on a point beyond the Saint's shoulder, and the whole calm patronising balance of his body hardened with it as if it had been nipped in an interstellar frost.
And even then, only one precise unit of him moved — the hand that still rested in his coat pocket. But that movement was still as adequate and eloquent as it had been the first time.