“That’ll be all right,” said the Saint heartily. “And now what about that Baby Polly we were going to split?”
Carn busied himself with decanter and glasses, and the Saint offered up a short prayer of thanksgiving. That was a nasty corner taken on two wheels in the devil of a skid, but they were round it somehow with the old bus still right side up, and the road looked pretty clear—at least as far as the next bend.
Simon caught the girl’s eye while Carn’s back was turned. She smiled and shrugged her shoulders helplessly. The Saint grinned back and spread out his hands. Then, quite shamelessly, he blew her a kiss.
Carn brought the drinks, and the Saint raised his glass.
“Bung-ho, troops,” he said. “Here’s to a good race, Carn.”
The detective looked back.
“Reasonably good hunting, Saint,” he replied grimly, and Simon grinned and drank.
“All things considered, worthy chirurgeon, I think——”
The Saint broke off at the sound of a thunderous knocking on the front door. Then a bell pealed long and insistently at the back of the house, and the knocking was resumed. Simon set down his glass carefully.
“You’re popular to-night, son,” he murmured. “Someone in a tearing hurry, too. Birth or death—what’s the betting?”