“No, don’t let’s,” agreed the Saint, standing just inside the room.
Neither had noticed his entrance, which had been a very slick specimen of its kind. He had slipped in through one of the open french windows, behind a curtain, and he stepped out of cover as he spoke, so that the effect was as startling as if he had materialised out of the air.
Patricia recognised him with a gasp. Bittle jumped up with an exclamation. His fat face, which had paled at first, became a deeper red. The Saint stood with his hands in his pockets and a gentle smile on his open face.
Bittle’s voice broke out in a harsh snarl.
“Sir——”
“To you,” assented the Saint smoothly. “Evening. Evening, Pat. Hope I don’t intrude.”
And he gazed in an artlessly friendly way from face to face, as cool and self-possessed and saintly-looking a six-foot-two of toughness as ever breezed into a peaceful Devonshire village. Patricia moved nearer to him instinctively, and Simon’s smile widened amiably as he offered her his hand. Bittle was struggling to master himself: he succeeded after an effort.
“I was not aware, Mr. Templar, that I had invited you to entertain us this evening,” he said thickly.
“Nor was I,” said the Saint ingenuously. “Isn’t it odd?”
Bittle choked. He was furious, and he was apprehensive of how long Templar might have been listening to the duologue; but there was another and less definite fear squirming into his consciousness. The Saint was tall, and although he was not at all massive there was a certain solid poise to his body that vouched for an excellent physique in fighting trim. And there was a mocking hell-for-leather light twinkling in the Saint’s level blue eyes, and something rather ugly about his very mildness, that tickled a cold shiver out of Bittle’s spine.