The Saint represented himself again as a Time magazine man, and named the subject of his research.
"Yes, yes," Prather said. "What about Dr. Zellermann? What kind of a man, or what kind of a doctor?"
"Both," said the Saint.
"Ah, well—" The telephone rang. "Excuse me." Prather answered, listened intently for a moment. Then he shot a glance at the Saint. "Yes," he said. "Yes. I see. Goodbye."
He turned to Simon. "Will you please get out of here?"
The Saint watched Mr. Prather at first with a mild disdain, as if he were watching a caterpillar in somebody else's salad; then with mild amusement, as if he had discovered the owner of the salad to be his dipsomaniac Uncle Lemuel; then with concern, as if he had remembered that Uncle Lem was without issue, and might leave that handpainted cufflink to his only nephew; then with resignation, as if it were suddenly too late to rescue Uncle — or the caterpillar.
Simon motioned Avalon to a tasteful divan, and seated himself. His eyes were now mocking and gay, with blue lights. His smile was as carefree and light as a lark at dawn. He took a gold pencil and a pad from his pocket.
"You were saying," he prompted, "about Dr. Zellermann?"
James Prather's fingers were like intertwined pallid snakes, writhing in agony.
"Please," he begged. "You must go at once. I have no time for you now. Come back tomorrow, or next week. An important appointment, unexpected. Sorry, but—"