“You’re a most refreshing relief,” she told him. “Baycombe is full of inferiority complexes.”
“Fortunately,” remarked Simon gently, “I don’t wear hats.”
Presently she said:
“What brings you to this benighted spot?”
“A craving for excitement and adventure,” answered the Saint promptly—“reinforced by an ambition to be horribly wealthy.”
She looked at him with a quick frown, but his face confirmed the innocence of sarcasm which had given a surprising twist to his words.
“I shouldn’t have thought anyone would have come here for that,” she said.
“On the contrary,” said the Saint genially, “I should have no hesitation in recommending this particular spot to any qualified adventurer as one of the few places left in England where battle, murder, and sudden death may be quite commonplace events.”
“I’ve lived here, on and off, since I was twelve, and the most exciting thing I can remember is a house on fire,” she argued, still possessed of an uneasy feeling that he was making fun of her.
“Then you’ll really appreciate the rough stuff when it does begin,” murmured Simon cheerfully, and swung his stick, whistling.