"An idea has slugged me," he said, "and I don't want you to be seen talking to me until we're ready. I just hope our sailor boys give me a couple of minutes to tell you."
"What are you talking about?" she demanded as he hailed a passing taxi.
He helped her in.
"Wait," he told the driver, and closed the glass panel separating the production end of the cab from the payload.
"I have a faint hunch," he told Avalon in a low voice. "Two young men will presently issue from that door. Possibly you saw them come in. Tanned, one in a freshly-pressed gray suit, the other in blue? Did they notice you?"
"Looked right through me."
"Don't be bitter, darling. They had big things on their minds. On their way down, they'll be free of care and ready to paint the town. On the way down, they'll remember you, and would be anxious to spend their newly-acquired wealth on you."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
By not so much as the twitch of a nerve end did the Saint reveal his thoughts. He had not talked too much; he never talked too much. But if Avalon were among the Ungodly — and his every red corpuscle stood up on its hind feet and howled at the thought — she would know whether he was breathing hard on the heels of truth or not. Her knowledge would then be communicated to the Boys Above.
He hoped, and was not prepared to admit even to himself how much he hoped, that his shadowy objectivity had no foundation in fact. But in his unorthodox plan of maneuvering, a failure to appraise situations and people with a fishy eye often led to the filling of mourners' benches. He'd helped to fill a few himself in his day.