“Now, here’s my suggestion,” said the Saint. “I know a bloke called Terry Mannering, who lives on the other side of Devonshire, and he can deal with fun and games as well as I can. He has a wife, whom you’ll love, and a very good line in yachts, being nearly as rich as I should like to be since his Old Man kicked the bucket. If I took you over and told Terry that it’d be good for all your healths if you went cruising off to the West Indies or somewhere else a long way off for a few months, till the tumult and the shouting dies, so to speak, and the Tigers and their Cubs depart—well, I know the three of you’d be on the high seas in no time. And the Tiger and I would be rude to each other for a bit, and when it was all over and he was decently buried I’d let you know and you could come back. What about it?”
Patricia studied her shoe; and she said, in a very Saintly way:
“What, indeed?”
“You said?” rapped Simon.
“What about it?” queried Patricia. “It might be rather a good idea some time, but you can’t rush it like that. Besides, I’m rather enjoying myself in Baycombe.”
Simon got up.
“Well, I’m not enjoying your enjoyment,” he said bluntly. “That sort of courage is all very fine when it’s to some purpose—but this time it isn’t. I’ve never dragged a woman into my little worries yet, and I’m not starting now. Perhaps you think this is going to be a picnic. I thought I’d made it plain enough that it isn’t. If you want to pack a few thrills into your young life, I’ll arrange a big-game shooting trip, or something else comparatively tame, later. But this particular spree is not in your line one bit, and you’d better be sensible and admit it.”
Patricia raised her eyebrows.
“So I gather you propose to kidnap me,” she said calmly. “I believe ‘shanghai’ is the word. Well, I should start planning right away—because nothing short of that is going to move me.”
“You’re a damned fool,” said the Saint.