“Need we keep it up?” he asked smoothly. “What on earth, dear lamb, did you think you were getting away with?”
Carn wrinkled his nose.
“Just as you like,” he agreed. “You have the advantage of me, though. I’m hanged if I can place you.”
“That’s the best news I’ve heard for some time,” said the Saint cheerfully.
Carn rose to go after a couple of pints of beer had vanished, and Templar rose also.
“Better let me see you home,” said the Saint. “I’ll feel safer.”
“If you think I need nursing,” began Carn with some heat, but Simon linked his arm in that of the detective with his most charming smile.
“Not a bit. I’d enjoy the stroll.”
Carn was living in a miniature house the grounds of which backed on the larger grounds of the Manor. Templar had already noticed the house, and had wondered whom it belonged to; and for some unaccountable reason, which he could only blame on his melodramatic imagination, he felt relieved at the news that Patricia had a real live detective within call.
On the walk, the Saint learned that Carn had been on the spot for three months. Carn was prepared to be loquacious up to a point: but beyond that limit he could not be lured. Carn was also prepared to talk about the Saint—a fact which pleased Simon’s egotism without hypnotising his caution.