The Saint had sunk deeper into his arm-chair. The room was lighted only by the smoky oil lamp that Orace had brought in with the coffee, for the sky had clouded over in the late afternoon and night had come on early.
“There are just one million reasons why I shouldn’t come across,” said the Saint tranquilly. “They were lost to the Confederated Bank of Chicago quite a time ago, and I want them all to myself, my good Carn.”
“You don’t imagine you could get away with it?”
“I can think of no limits to my ingenuity in getting away with things,” said the Saint calmly.
He moved in the shadows, and a moment later he said quietly:
“There is a million-and-first argument which prevents me coming across just now, Carn—and that is that I never allow Tiger Cubs to listen-in on my confessions.”
“What do you mean?” asked Carn.
“I mean,” said the Saint in a clear strong voice, “that at this moment there’s some son-of-a-gun peeking through that embrasure. I’ve got him covered, and if he so much as blinks I’m going to shoot his eyelids off!”
Chapter III.
A Little Melodrama
Carn sprang to his feet, his hand flying to his hip, and the Saint laughed softly.