“Quite, thanks. How’s yourself?”
“Need you waste time playing the fool?” demanded Bittle shortly.
“Now I come to think of it—no,” answered the Saint amiably. “But granny always said I was a terrible tease. . . . Well, sonny, taken all round I don’t think your hospitality comes up to standard; and that being so I’ll see Miss Holm back to the old roof-tree. S’long.”
And he took Patricia’s arm and led her towards the french window, while Bittle stood watching them in silence, completely nonplussed. It was just as he seemed about to pass out of the house without further parley that the Saint stopped and turned, as though struck by a minor afterthought.
“By the way, Bittle,” he said, “I was forgetting—you were going to pass over a few documents, weren’t you?”
Bittle did not answer, and the Saint added:
“All about your side line in usury. Hand over the stuff and I’ll write you a cheque now for the full amount.”
“I refuse,” snapped the millionaire.
“Please yourself,” said the Saint. “My knowledge of Law is pretty scrappy, but I don’t think you can do that without cancelling the debt. Anyway, I’ll tell my solicitor to send you a cheque, and we’ll see what happens.”
The Saint turned away again, and in so doing almost collided with Patricia, who had preceded him into the garden. The girl was caught in his arms for a moment to save a fall, and the Saint was surprised to see that she was gasping with suppressed terror. A moment later the reason was given him by a ferocious baying of great hounds in the darkness.