“Now we can be matey again,” remarked Simon with satisfaction. “What’s the next move? Taking things in a broad way, I can’t credit your bunch with much brilliance so far. Dear old Spittle, why on earth must you make such an appalling bloomer? Don’t you know that according to the rules of this game you ought to remain shrouded in mystery until Chapter Thirty? Now you’ve been and gone and spoilt my holiday,” complained the Saint bitterly, “and I don’t know how I shall be able to forgive you.”
“You are a very extraordinary man, Mr. Templar.”
The Saint smiled.
“True, O King. But you’re quite as strange a specimen as ever went into the Old Bailey. For a retired grocer, your command of the Oxford language is astonishing.”
Bittle did not answer, and the Saint gazed genially around and seemed almost surprised to see Patricia standing a little behind him. The girl had not known what to make of most of the conversation, but she had recovered from her immediate fear. There was a large assurance about everything the Saint did and said which inspired her with uncomprehending courage—even as it inspired Bittle with uncomprehending anxiety.
“Hope we haven’t bored you,” murmured Simon solicitously. “Would you like to go home?”
She nodded, and Templar looked at the millionaire.
“She would like to go home,” Templar said in his most winning voice.
A thin smile touched Bittle’s mouth.
“Just when we’re getting matey?” he queried.