Carn shrugged.
“That depends.”
The detective was a passably good actor, but he was heavily handicapped by the suggestion of malicious glee that lurked in the Saint’s twinkling eyes. And he dared not seem to notice that the Saint was quietly laughing at him, because it was essential for him to maintain the rôle of Dr. Carn in the presence of a witness. Which goes some way to explain why his florid face remained more rubicund even than it normally was, and why there was a certain unnatural restraint in his voice.
Patricia was perplexed. She had expected to find that the Saint and Carn were familiar friends: instead, she found two men fencing with innuendo. It was beyond her to follow the subtleties of the duel, but there was no doubt that Simon was quite happy and Carn was quite annoyed, for it was indisputably the Saint’s game.
“Shall I tell you all about it, Doc?” asked the Saint insinuatingly, for it was a weakness of his to exaggerate his pose to the borders of farce.
“Do,” urged Carn, in an unguarded moment.
“I’ll tell you,” said Simon confidentially. “It was like this. . . .”
Carn drew nearer. The Saint frowned, blinked, scratched his head, and stared blankly at the detective.
“Do you know,” said Simon, in simulated dismay, “it’s a most extraordinary thing—I can’t remember. Isn’t that funny?”
The detective was understood to reply that he was not amused. He said other things, in a low voice that was none the less pregnant with emotion, for the Saint’s ears alone, and Simon turned away with a pained expression.