"Whatever you say," Prather replied, "I like. You have a good quality of voice. Though I don't see why you should spend any time with me."
"Remember?" Simon asked. "I'm still doing research on Dr. Zellermann."
Prather laughed. "I'd forgotten. Ah, here come our drinks."
The waiter, an individual, like the village blacksmith, with brawny arms, came across the empty dance floor with a tray flattened on one upturned palm. It was obvious to the Saint's practiced eye that the man's whole mental attitude had changed. He had gone away trailing a fretful desire to please; he approached with new-found independence.
He was a stocky individual, broad of shoulder, lean of hip, heavy in the legs. His face was an eccentric oval, bejewelled with small turquoise eyes, crowned with an imposing nose that overhung a mouth of rather magnificent proportions. His chin was a thing of angles, on which you could hang a lantern.
But the principal factor in his changed aspect was his independence. He carried the tray of drinks as though the nearest thing to his heart was the opportunity and reason to toss them into the face of a customer. Not only that, but each of the three glasses was that type known as "old fashioned."
Each glass was short, wide of mouth, broad of base. And in each drink was a slice of orange and a cherry impaled on a toothpick.
"Sorry," said the Saint as the waiter distributed the glasses, "but I ordered highballs, not Old Fashioneds."
"Yeah?" said the waiter. "You trying to make trouble?"
"No. I'm merely trying to get a drink."