"Now, just a minute, Mr. Templar." Cookie's voice came through again with the sticky transparency of honey poured over a file. "These little things do happen in night clubs, and we all understand them. I didn't mean to be rude to you — I was just upset. Won't you sit down and have a drink with me?"
"No, thank you," said the Saint calmly. "I've already had several of your drinks, and I want to get my tummy pumped out before goldfish start breeding in it."
He peeled a bill off his roll and handed it to the waiter with a gesture which dismissed the change.
"Of course you thought you were doing the right thing," Cookie persisted. "But if you only knew the trouble I've had with that little tramp, I'm sure—"
"I'm quite sure," said the Saint, with the utmost charm, "that I'd take Avalon's suggestion — and throw Dr. Zellermann in for a bonus."
He turned on his heel and sauntered away — he seemed tired of the whole thing and full of time to spare, but that effect was an illusion. He wanted very much indeed to catch Avalon Dexter before he lost her, and his long lazy stride took him to the door without a wasted movement.
The check-room girl was helping him into his coat when Ferdinand Pairfield, on his way to the gents' room, edged past him at a nervous distance that was not without a certain coy concupiscence. The Saint reached out and took his hand.
"Don't you think that nail polish is a bit on the garish side, Ferdy?" he asked gravely. "Something with a tinge of violet in it would look much cuter on you."
Mr. Pairfield giggled, and disengaged his fingers as shyly and reluctantly as a debutante.
"Oh, you!" he carolled.