“I can’t believe it.”
The Saint edged away from the wall, so that he could see into the room through the space between the half-drawn curtains. Patricia was in the chair opposite Bittle, tight-lipped, her handkerchief twisted to a rag between her fingers.
Bittle laughed—a throaty chuckle that did not disturb the comfortable impassiveness of his florid features. Templar also chuckled. If that chuckle could have been heard, it would have been found to have an unpleasant timbre.
“Even documents—bonds—receipts—won’t convince you, I suppose?” asked the millionaire. He pulled a sheaf of papers from the pocket of his dinner jacket and tossed them into the girl’s lap. “I’ve been very patient, but I’m getting tired of this hanky-panky. I suppose just seeing you made me silly and sentimental—but I’m not such a sentimental fool that I’m going to take another mortgage on an estate that isn’t worth one half of what I’ve lent your aunt already.”
“It’ll break her heart,” said Patricia, white-faced.
“The alternative is breaking my bank.”
The girl started up, clutching the papers tensely.
“You couldn’t be such a swine!” she said hotly. “What’s a few thousand to you?”
“This,” said Bittle calmly: “it gives me the power to make terms.”
Patricia was frozen as she stood. There was a silence that ticked out a dozen sinister things in as many seconds. Then she said, in a strained, unnaturally low voice: