The Saint didn't move. He watched the approach of the brawny gents with the bright-eyed interest of a small boy at his first circus. He noted the width of Jake's shoulders, the practiced walk bespeaking sessions in a prize ring, and the shamble of his companion. He weighed them, mentally, and calculated the swiftness of their reflexes. He smiled.
He could see Avalon's clenched fists, just below the rim of the table, and from the corner of his eye he noted Prather's bug-eyed interest.
Jake directed a calm, steady, brown-eyed gaze at Simon Templar.
"Get out of here. Now."
Simon didn't seem to push his chair back. He seemed only to come to an astonished attention. But in that straightening motion, his chair was somehow a good three inches back from the edge of the table and he could come to his feet without being hampered.
"Yes?" he drawled with hopeful interest. "How jolly. Ask your boss to come out and explain."
"The boss don't need to explain," said the spokesman. "We'll do all the explainin' necessary."
"Then suppose you do, my lad."
"What is this all about, Jake?" Avalon asked.
"The boss don't want him here, that's all. And we'll throw him out if he don't scram." Jake turned back to the Saint. "Look, chum, we ain't anxious to spread your pretty face all around like gravy. But we can, and will, if'n you don't beat it. And don't come back."