The Saint was looking for bigger game. Perhaps the rising elevator would bring some.
It regurgitated two young men who were beyond doubt fresh in from the sea. They wore shore clothes, but the sea was in their tanned faces, their hard hands, and the set of their legs, braced automatically for the roll of a deck. The Saint couldn't see their eyes in the hall's gloom, but he knew they would have the characteristic look of those who gaze habitually on circular horizons.
They walked without speaking to James Prather's door, thumbed the button, were admitted. The Saint moved catlike to the door, but listening brought nothing. The door was heavy, the walls designed to give privacy to the occupant. Simon sighed, summoned the elevator, and joined Avalon, who was sitting in one of those chairs that clutter the lobbies of apartment houses and gazing at the uninspiring wallpaper with a forlorn expression.
"I beg your pardon, Miss," he said, "but I was attracted by your beauty, and can't help asking you a question. I am a representative of Grimes Graphite, Inc — 'Grimes' gets the grime,' you know — and felt certain that you must use it. Is that what makes your skin glow so?"
"My mother before me, and her mother before her, rubbed their faces each night with Grimes's graphite. But I don't use it myself. I loathe it."
"That is hardly the point at issue, is it? We can use that line about your maternal progenitors, run a photo of yourself — do you ski? — no matter, we can fix that. And we might even be persuaded to raise the ante."
"You twisted my bankbook," Avalon said. "I'm your gal."
"Really?"
She smiled. "Really."
They looked at each other for a long moment, until several persons came through the front door in a group, of which the male members stared at Avalon with very obvious admiration. The Saint took her outside.