"Mr. Prather," he said, "you must find life quite exhilarating. Contact with the major ports of the world, and all that."
Prather stared, his eyes more lobster-like than usual.
"What are you talking about?"
There was no mistaking the honest bewilderment in the prominent blue eyes, and this gave the Saint pause. According to his ideas on the organization he was bucking, Prather would be one of the key men. Sam Jeffries had substantiated this notion, in his interrupted story to Avalon: "... and there was this guy we had to see in Shanghai."
That fitted in with the whole theory of "Benny sent me." A contact was made here, instructions given, perhaps an advance made. Then the delivery of a package in the Orient or the Near East, which was returned to New York and duly turned over to James Prather or a prototype. All this made sense, made a pattern.
But here was James Prather, obviously bewildered by the plainest kind of a lead. Was the man cleverer than he seemed? Was he putting on an act that could mislead that expert act-detector, the Saint? Or was he honestly in the dark about the Saint's meaning? And if he was, why was he here immediately after a visit from two sailors freshly back from the Orient?
Mr. James Prather, it seemed, was in this picture somewhere, and it behooved the Saint to find out where.
"Well," Simon said, "no matter. We have more important things to do, such as demolishing our— But we have no drinks." He motioned to an aproned individual, who came to the table and assumed an attitude of servility. "Three more of the same. Old Forester."
The waiter took the empty glasses and went away. The Saint turned his most winning smile on Prather.
"I wasn't really shooting in the dark," he said. "But I guess my remarks weren't down the right alley."