“Finally,” said Bittle, “there is the girl. I propose to marry her myself, and Maggs will conduct the service as soon as the sentence has been carried out upon Templar and Orace.” He picked up a revolver from the table and waved it meaningly. “If there is anyone here—Maggs included—who objects to that, he can speak now.”
Nobody moved.
“Scat!” remarked the Saint.
“Is that all the protest even our redoubtable Mr. Templar can make?” Bittle sneered. “I’m disappointed—you’ve talked so much about what you were going to do to all of us that I was expecting something interesting.”
Simon yawned.
“Before I die,” he said, “may I tell you my celebrated joke about a man called Carn? I wonder if you’ve heard it before? There was once a physician called Carn, but nobody cared worth a darn—if a man said ‘By Heck! That bloke might be a ’tec!’ the others would simply say ‘Garn!’ And yet it happens to be true. Isn’t it odd?”
“Patricia”—Bittle rolled the name out with relish—“has already told me that story. If it is any comfort to you, I can assure you that it will only make me more careful of her health. The same ultimatum which brought you into my power will, I think, discourage Carn. It will certainly be an awkward dilemma for him, but I imagine that his humanity will triumph over his sense of duty.”
“If that is so,” said Simon slowly, “I think he will be sure to give the order to fire—and blow this ship and everyone on board to smithereens.”
Bittle shrugged, and signed to one of the men whom Orace had floored.
“We will start with the servant,” he said.