The millionaire flung himself forward, knocking up the pistol. Bittle was trembling. He mopped his brow with a large white handkerchief, breathing heavily.
“You fool!” he jerked. “The girl’s been here—he helped her get away. If anything happens to him she’ll talk. D’you want to put a rope round all our necks?”
“You always did argue soundly, Bittle darling,” said the Saint appreciatively.
He seated himself on the table, swinging his legs, and the proverbial cucumber would have looked smoking hot beside him.
“It must be arranged so as to look like an accident,” said Bittle. “That damned girl will have the police buzzing about our ears unless the circumstances are above suspicion.”
Bloem shrugged.
“The girl can be silenced,” he stated dispassionately.
“You’ll leave the girl alone,” snarled Bittle. “Where’s the Chief?”
The Saint saw Bloem’s face convulse with a warning scowl.
“He will return later.”