“Really,” he remarked in a tone of polite inquiry, “your kindness overwhelms me. And I never put you down for a brace of birds too gravely burdened with faith, hope and charity. Is Miss Holm such an insuperable obstacle—to Supermen like yourselves?”
“I think,” said Bittle smoothly, “that you would be wise not to ask too many questions. It is quite enough for you to know, Mr. Templar, that your phenomenal luck has held—perhaps for the last time. You had better say good-night before we change our minds.”
The Saint smiled.
“You have no minds,” he said. “The Tiger says ‘Hop!’ and you blinkin’ well hop. . . . I wonder, now, is it because you’re scared of Orace? Orace is a devil when he’s roused, and if you’d bumped me off and he’d got to know about it there’d’ve been hell to pay. Possibly you’re wise.”
“Possibly,” snarled Bloem, as though he did not believe it, and the Saint nodded.
“There is always the chance that I might go and talk to the police, isn’t there?”
Bittle was lighting a cigar, and he looked up with a twisted mouth.
“You are not a man who loses his nerve and goes yelping to Scotland Yard, Mr. Templar,” he answered. “Also, there is quite a big prize at stake. I think we can rely on you.”
The Saint stared back with a kind of reluctant admiration.
“Almost I see in you the makings of sportsmen,” he said.