The Saint turned suddenly on his heel, and the guard sprang back a pace and put up their weapons, and Simon laughed.
“Your men aren’t very brave, are they?” he remarked. “I’m unarmed, and each of them looks like a travelling arsenal—but watch!”
He feinted at one of the tough-looking customers and the man flinched away. The Saint tweaked his nose ungently, and, wheeling round, tripped up another man and sent him crashing to the floor. Bittle sprang up with an oath, reaching for his revolver, but the Saint turned back with a light chuckle and put up his hands.
“Merely a demonstration of moral superiority,” he said airily. “Even now, you see, I can scare you!”
“I’ll soon stop that,” Bittle grated, furious at having let himself be alarmed by the exhibition, and pointed to one of the men. “Fetch a rope—we’ll see what he can do when he’s trussed up.”
“Anything you like,” said the Saint boastfully. “Houdini is my middle name, and knots mean nothing to me.”
The rope was brought, and Simon’s hands were tied securely behind his back. The man knew his job, and, since he was the gentleman whose nose the Saint had taken liberties with, he did not consider the prisoner’s comfort at all. The cords bit savagely into Simon’s wrists, tightened up by a violent hand, but the Saint only smiled.
“Mind you don’t break the rope,” he said solicitously.
The man knelt down to bind the Saint’s ankles, but the Saint, without any haste or heat, put his foot in the man’s face and pushed him over.
“If there’s no objection,” he murmured, “I’ll sit down first.”