“Sir!” answered Orace, appearing at the threshold of the kitchen.
“I’m going to have a look round. I’ll be back for lunch.”
“Aye, aye, sir. . . . Sir!”
The Saint was turning away, and he stopped. Orace fumbled under his apron and produced a fearsome weapon—a revolver of pre-war make and enormous calibre—which he offered to his master.
“It ain’t much ter look at,” said Orace, stroking the barrel lovingly, “and I wouldn’t use it fer fancy shooting; but it’ll make a bigger ’ole in a man than any o’ those pretty ortymatics.”
“Thanks,” grinned the Saint. “But it makes too much noise. I prefer Anna.”
“Um,” said Orace.
Orace could put any shade of meaning into that simple monosyllable, and on this occasion there was no doubt about the precise shade of meaning he intended to convey.
The Saint was studying a slim blade which he had taken from a sheath strapped to his forearm, hidden under his sleeve. The knife was about six inches long in the blade, which was leaf-shaped and slightly curved. The haft was scarcely three inches long, of beautifully carved ivory. The whole was so perfectly balanced that it seemed to take life from the hand that held it, and its edge was so keen that a man could have shaved with it. The Saint spun the sliver of steel high in the air and caught it adroitly by the hilt as it fell back; and in the same movement he returned it to its sheath with such speed that the knife seemed to vanish even as he touched it.
“Don’t you be rude about Anna,” said the Saint, wagging a reproving forefinger. “She’d take a man’s thumb off before the gun was half out of his pocket.”