“I can only hope,” returned Bittle impassively, “that you will find the sport to your liking.”
Simon shook his head.
“You won’t disappoint me, Beautiful One,” he murmured. “I feel it in my bones. . . . And so to bed. . . . Give the Tiger my love, and tell him I’m sorry I wasn’t able to meet him.” And the Saint paused, struck by a sudden thought. “By the way—about Fernando. You know somebody’s going to swing for him, don’t you? I mean, if things start to go badly, make sure the Tiger gets all the blame to himself, or else you might swing with him.”
“We shall be careful,” Bittle assured him.
“Splendid,” said the Saint. “Well, cheerio, souls. Sleep tight, and pleasant dreams.”
He sauntered to the french windows and opened them.
“If you don’t mind. . . . I have a rooted dislike for dark corridors. One never knows, does one?”
“Mr. Templar.” The millionaire stopped him. “Before you go——”
The Saint turned on the terrace and looked back into the room. He was still debonair and smiling, and although the shrubbery had given the coup de grace to his ancient and disreputably comfortable clothes, he contrived by some subtle gift of personality to look immaculate enough to wander into Claridge’s without the commissionaire spotting him and shooing him round to the tradesman’s entrance. Only the Saint knew what an effort that air of careless ease cost him. The atmosphere was positively dripping with the smell of rats, but Simon Templar never twitched a nostril.
“Comrade?”