"This is Dr. Ernst Zellermann," said the telephone.
"So I gathered," said the Saint. "How are you?"
"Mr. Templar, I owe you an apology. I had too much to drink last night. I'm usually a good drinker, and I have no idea why it should have affected me that way. But my behavior was inexcusable. My language — I would prefer to forget. I deserved just what happened to me. In your place, I would have done exactly what you did."
The voice was rich and crisp with candor. It was the kind of voice that knew what it was talking about, and automatically inspired respect. The professional voice. It was a voice which naturally invited you to bring it your troubles, on which it was naturally comfortable to lean.
Simon extracted a cigarette from the pack on the bedside table.
"I knew you wouldn't mind," he said amiably. "After all, I was only carrying out your own principles. You did what your instincts told you — and I let my instincts talk to me."
"Exactly. You are perfectly adjusted. I congratulate you for it. And I can only say I am sorry that our acquaintance should have begun like that."
"Think nothing of it, dear wart. Any other time you feel instinctive we'll try it out again."
"Mr. Templar, I'm more sorry than I can tell you. Because I have a confession to make. I happen to be one of your greatest admirers. I have read a great deal about you, and I've always thought of you as the ideal exponent of those principles you were referring to. The man who never hesitated to defy convention when he knew he was right. I am as detached about my own encounter with you as if I were a chemist who had been blown up while he was experimenting with an explosive. Even at my own expense, I have proved myself right. That is the scientific attitude."
"There should be more of it," said the Saint gravely.