The Saint’s fists clenched. His mouth had set in a hard line, and his eyes were blazing. The Saintly pose had dropped from him like the flimsy mask it was, and for the first and last-but-one time she saw Simon Templar in a savage fury.
“And—you think—you, my girl, you——” The words dropped from his tense lips like chips of white-hot steel. “You think I shall let you—take—that chance?”
“Is there any logical reason, my man, why you shouldn’t?”
“Yes, there is!” he stormed. “And if you aren’t damned careful you’ll hear it—and I don’t care how you take it!”
She tossed her head.
“Well, what is it?”
“This,” said Simon deliberately—“I love you.”
“But, you dear priceless idiot,” said Patricia, “hasn’t it occurred to you that the only reason I’m in this at all is because I love you?”
For a space he stared. Then——
“Burn it,” said the Saint shakily, “why couldn’t you say so before?”