Bloem smiled.
“You left it behind,” he said. “Here it is.”
Carn took the weapon from Bloem’s hand and examined it.
“Belgian make,” he said. “Is this yours, Mr. Templar?”
“It is not,” answered Simon promptly. “I object to firearms on principle. They make such a noise.”
“Come along,” urged the constable, jerking the Saint forward.
Simon was not easily peeved, but one thing that made him see red was anybody trying to haze him. For a second he forgot his saintly pose. He caught the policeman’s wrist with both hands and twisted like an eel. There was a flurry of arms and legs, a yell, and George Hopkins landed with a crash on the other side of the room, with most of the breath knocked out of him.
The Saint straightened his tie, and looked bang into the muzzle of an automatic in Bloem’s hand, but that he ignored.
“Anyone who wants a quiet life is advised to keep their filthy hands off me,” murmured the Saint. “Don’t do it again, son.”
The constable was getting shakily to his feet.