“Home again,” drawled the Saint. “This is a peach of a round game, what? as dear Algy would say. Now can I see the offices? House-agents always end up their advertisements by saying that their desirable property is equipped with the usual offices, but I’ve never seen one of the same yet.”
“Let me attim,” uttered the butler, shifting round the table.
The Saint smiled, his hands in his pockets.
“You try to drop-kick me down the front steps, and you get welted on the boko,” said Simon speculatively, adapting style to audience. “Now you want to whang into my prow—and I wonder where you get blipped this time?”
Bittle stepped between the two men, and in one comprehensive glance summed up their prospects in a rough-house. Then he looked at the butler and motioned towards the door.
The ex-pug went out reluctantly, muttering profane and offensive things, and the millionaire faced round again.
“Suppose you explain yourself?”
“Just suppose!” agreed Templar enthusiastically.
Bittle glowered.
“Well, Mr. Templar?”