“Rising to address this general meeting at the close of such a successful year,” he prompted, “I feel—— Go on, Bittle. Declare the dividend, and make sure all your braces buttons are safe before you bow to the applause.”
His gently mocking tones broke down some of the tension. He looked across at the girl, and she smiled back.
“I’m not taking any notice,” she said in a clear voice. “He’s only indulging his love for melodrama.”
“Melodrama,” replied Bittle, “is a thing for which I have an instinctive loathing. Yet, in a situation such as this, it is very hard to avoid overstepping the bounds of banality. However, I will try to be as precise and to the point as possible.” He fixed his malignant gaze on the Saint. “This man, Templar, whom you see, has elected to interfere in matters which do not concern him. By a succession of miracles, he has so far managed to avoid the various arrangements which we have made for disposing of him; but now, on the open sea, I hardly think he can escape. He has put us to great inconvenience, and I don’t think anyone here has any cause to bear him any good will. While he lives, no one here is safe. I believe I am merely the spokesman of everyone present when I say that he must die.”
He looked from face to face, and there was a mutter of assent. He looked at the Saint again.
“I endorse that verdict,” he said.
“Blatherskite and brickdust!” said the Saint disparagingly.
Bittle continued.
“Then there is this man—Orace. He is also a man against whom some of you will bear a personal grudge. In any case, he is in Templar’s confidence, and therefore I say that he too must die.”
“Pure banana oil,” jeered the Saint.