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Stratford Keane glowered at her despondently. “My dear, your innocence is equaled by nothing but your beauty. The only voice which has anything to say about the cast is the voice of the money which is backing the production, which happens to belong to Miss Freeman.”

“Shouldn’t you have said that it belonged to Rick Lansing?” Simon put in shrewdly.

Patricia turned to him with a tiny wrinkle forming between her brows.

“Miss Freeman’s latest husband,” Simon answered. “Better known to his business associates as Rick the Barber. Only it probably wouldn’t be tactful to mention that when she’s around.” He shifted his eyes. “Which means starting about now.”

He had seen enough advance publicity pictures of Iris Freeman to recognize her as she came towards the table. It would have been impossible in any event not to notice her, for the furs and jewels which trimmed a face and figure that could have attracted quite enough attention without any artificial adornment at all were obviously worn for the secondary function of practically forcing the observer to ask who they belonged to. And the unhesitating way in which her path was headed for Stratford Keane established a connection between them that was almost enough clue by itself.

“Stratford, darling!” she cried. “I was just betting Mark that we’d find you here as usual.”

“A feat of unparalleled perspicacity on your part,” said Keane. He struggled halfway to his feet, rocking the table dangerously. “May I present two dear friends of mine — Miss Patricia Holm and Mr Simon Templar. This is Miss Iris Freeman, whom I was just telling you about. And — er” — he winced slightly at the exquisitely tailored male who appeared from behind Miss Freeman’s patina—“Mr Belden.”

Iris Freeman’s beautiful dark eyes found Simon and grew wide and worshipful.

“Simon Templar?” she repeated. “You don’t mean — the Saint?”

Simon nodded resignedly. It was not always convenient to be identified so readily with the paradoxical alias under which his identity had once upon a time been concealed, but those days were pretty far in the past, and few people who read newspapers were unaware of the almost legendary career of brigandage which his name stood for. He was getting more used to it all the time, and certainly there was nothing much else to do except make the best of it. Which was not always so bad, either, especially when the vague associations of his name made beautiful women look at him in that excited and expectant way.

He smiled.

“That was the name,” he said, “before I saw the error of my ways.”

Belden said, “This is wonderful. You know, Iris is one of your most devoted fans, Mr Templar. She’s crazy about you.”

Simon restrained an impulse to empty the remains of a Martini over him, and said, “I think that’s a wonderful way to be crazy. But of course I’m prejudiced.”

“I was just telling Mark the other day that the only person in the whole world whose autograph I’d really like to have was the Saint,” Iris Freeman said.

“Isn’t that sort of turning the tables on your public, Miss Freeman?” murmured Patricia sweetly.

The actress laughed gaily, with every note beautifully modulated for imaginary microphones.

“Hardly a habit of mine. But we all have our weaknesses, don’t we? And the Saint’s also one of mine, darling... Mark, do you have a piece of paper?”

Belden fumbled in his pockets and produced a folded sheet.

“Here you are.”

“I suppose if I had more practice I could take these situations in my stride,” said the Saint.

“You’ll do all right,” said Patricia. “Sign the paper and satisfy your adoring public.”

Simon took out a pen and scribbled his name.

“And you must draw the Saint figure,” Iris Freeman insisted. “It wouldn’t be complete without that.”

The Saint patiently sketched his trademark — the straight-line skeleton figure crowned with the conventional halo which had once been enough to give the most hardened citizens an uneasy qualm at the pit of their stomachs — and reflected that a lot of things had changed. Or had they?

“That’s simply wonderful,” Iris Freeman gushed. “You’ll never believe what a thrill this is for me. I only wish I could stay and talk to you for hours, but Mark and I have to run. How would you like to come to our rehearsal tomorrow?”

“He’d love to,” Patricia said firmly. “But I’m afraid he has another engagement.”

“Oh... I see.” The actress bit her lip. “Well, I’ll be sure and send you some tickets for the opening, Saint. And you must come to the party afterwards, I’ll manage to get you off to myself somehow — Come along, Mark.”

“Yes, dear.” Belden gave Simon one of those unnecessarily hearty handshakes. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Templar. And you, Miss Holm. So long, Stratford. Don’t let it get you down.”

They made an exit which should have had an orchestral background, and Stratford Keane stared after them rudely.

“The only party after the opening,” he said, “should be a wake, with those two as the guests of honor.”

“I don’t think Simon agrees with you,” Patricia said. “He’s discovered that there are things in Iris’s favor which you never mentioned in your description.”

Simon reached for her glass and finished her drink for her.

“You’re very unfair to the wench,” he said. “If it’s a crime to be fascinated by me, what are you doing here?”

He produced folding money and handed it to a hopeful waiter.

“Buy Mr Keane another drink,” he said. “And a taxi afterwards, if he needs it.” He stood up. “I’m sorry we have to rush off, but I have to buy Pat some dinner. She doesn’t talk back so much with her mouth full.”

Mr Keane nodded broodingly.

“Good night,” he said. “I shall see thee — at Philippi.”

They made their escape, Simon hoped, before Mr Keane was reminded that the Pump Room was also in the business of serving food.

The encounter was typical of many similar incidents in the Saint’s life — coincidental, casual, and apparently pointless, and yet destined to lead into unsuspected complications. Adventure, for him, moved in a mysterious way. Nothing ever seemed to happen to him that was completely unimportant, or that led nowhere. He had come to accept it as part of an inscrutable fate, like the people who are known to insurance companies as “accident prone”: regardless of whether he took the initiative or not, something was always happening to him. He seldom thought about it much anymore, except that it may have subconsciously contributed to a pleasantly persistent euphoria, an almost imperceptible but continuous excitement which made the colors of his world just a little brighter than anyone else’s.

For several hours he certainly didn’t think much more about any of the three people who had just met at his table, or attach any immediate significance to the meeting — not even when he brought Patricia into his suite at the Ambassador for a nightcap, and switched on the lights and found himself looking down the barrel of a gun in the hand of an unexpected guest who had beat them to it without an invitation.

Simon Templar had looked down the barrels of guns before, and it had ceased to be a surprising experience for him. The turbulent course of his career had left enough survivors to constitute a sizable roster of characters whose principal ambition would always be to view the Saint again from behind the percentage end of a small piece of ordnance. The only remarkable thing about it was that Simon couldn’t at the moment think of any particular person in the vicinity who had reason to be trying to fulfill such a whim at that time.

“Well, well, well,” he murmured. “Look what people are doing now to get a hotel room.”

“Shut the door, bub,” said the man. “But don’t put your hat down. You ain’t staying long.”