“I’m sure Miss Holm didn’t mean to offend you,” protested Simon. He looked at the girl, who stared blankly at him, and turned to Bittle with an air of engaging frankness. “You see? It’s only that she’s rather tired.”
Bittle turned over the cigars in a box on a side table near the Saint, selected one, amputated the tip, and lighted it with the loving precision of a connoisseur. Then he faced Templar blandly.
“That happens to be just what I can’t allow at the moment,” said Bittle in an apologetic tone. “You see, we have some business to discuss.”
“I guess it’ll keep,” said the Saint gently.
“I don’t think so,” said Bittle.
Templar regarded the other thoughtfully for a few seconds. Then, with a shrug, he jerked the millionaire’s automatic from his pocket and walked to the french windows. He opened one of them a couple of inches, holding it with his foot, and signed to the girl to follow him. With her beside him, he said:
“Then it looks, Bittle, as if you’ll spend to-morrow morning burying a number of valuable dogs.”
“I don’t think so,” said Bittle.
There was a quiet significance in the way he said it that brought the Saint round again on the alert.
“Go hon!” mocked Simon watchfully.