The detective looked at the Saint and nodded slowly.
“I think we might,” he assented. “Such luck ought to be celebrated. I suppose it would be indiscreet to ask how Orace came to arrive so fortunately?”
“But why indiscreet?” cried the Saint. “All’s fair and above board. Orace, tell the gentleman how you happened to blow in on your cue.”
Orace cleared his throat.
“Being accustomed to take a constitooshnal,” he began, in the stilted language which he would have employed before his orderly officer, “I’m in the ’abit of walking this wy of a nevenin’; and the winder bein’ open an’ me ’avin’ good eyesight——”
“Of course I believe you,” said Carn. “You deserve to be believed. There’s some whisky in the kitchen, Orace.”
Orace saluted and marched out, and the Saint doubled up with silent mirth.
“Orace is unique,” he said.
“Orace is all that, and then some,” Carn returned ruefully.
Soon afterwards Simon and Patricia left. They walked the short distance to the Manor without speaking, for the Saint was enjoying the novel experience of finding his flow of small talk entirely dried up. He had thought of nothing to say until the girl was opening the door, and then he could only make a postponement.