“What terms?”
Sir John Bittle moved one fat hand in a faint gesture of deprecation.
“Please don’t let’s be more melodramatic than we can help,” he said. “Already I feel very self-conscious and conventional. But the fact is, I should like to marry you.”
For an instant the girl was motionless. Then the last drop of blood fled from her cheeks. She held the papers in her two hands, high above her head.
“Here’s my answer, you cad!”
She tore the documents across and across and flung the pieces from her, and then stood facing the millionaire with her face as pale as death and her eyes flaming.
“Good for you, kid!” commented the Saint inaudibly.
Bittle, however, was unperturbed, and once again that throaty chuckle gurgled in his larynx without kindling any corresponding geniality in his features.
“Copies,” he said simply, and at that point the Saint thought that the conversational tension would be conveniently relieved with a little affable comment from a third party.
“You little fool!” said Bittle acidly. “Did you think I worked my way up from mud to millions without some sort of brain? And d’you imagine that a man who’s beaten the sharpest wits in London at their own game is going to be baulked by a chit of a country child? Tchah!” The millionaire’s lips twisted wryly. “Now you’ve made me lose my temper and get melodramatic, just when I asked you not to. Don’t let’s have any more nonsense, please. I’ve put it quite plainly: either you marry me or I sue your aunt for what she owes me. Choose whichever you prefer, but don’t let’s have any hysterics.”