He gazed at her thoughtfully for a few seconds; and she touched his hand.
"Won't you do that — and save trouble?"
"You know, Kate," said the Saint, "you're a lovely gal. Would you mind very much if I kissed you?"
"I could make it worth a hundred pounds to you — for nothing — if you gave us a clear field."
Simon wrinkled his nose.
"Are there forty-nine of you?" he drawled. "It seems a very small share-out to me."
"I might be able to make it two hundred. They wouldn't agree to any more."
The Saint blew smoke-rings towards the ceiling.
"If you could make it two thousand I don't think you'd be able to buy me off, darling. Being bought off is so dull. So what's the alternative? Am I slugged with another sandbag and locked up in the pantry?"
Suddenly he found that she was gripping his arm, looking straight into his face.
"I'm not thinking about your health, Saint," she said quietly. "I want that pendant. I want it more than I'd expect you to believe. I've never asked any other man a favour in my life. I know that in our racket men don't do favours — without getting paid for it. But you're supposed to be different, aren't you?"
"This is a new act, Kate," murmured the Saint interestedly. "Do go on — I want to hear what the climax is."
"Do you think this is an act?"
"I don't want to be actually rude, darling, especially after all the dramatic fervour you put into it, but —"
"You've got every right to think so," she said; and he saw that the merriment was gone from her great brown eyes. "I should think the same way if I were in your place. I'll try to keep the dramatic fervour out of it. Can I tell you — that the pendant means the way out of the racket for me? I'm going straight after this." She was twisting her handkerchief, turning away from him now. "I'm going to get married — on the level. Funny, isn't it?"
He glanced at her doubtfully, with that mocking curve still lingering on his lips. For some reason he refrained from asking whether her other husbands had been informed of this plan: he knew nothing about her private life. But even with the best intentions a modern Robin Hood must get that way; and he did not know why he was silent.
And then, quite clearly, he heard the tread of leisurely feet on the other side of the clump of imported vegetation behind which they were concealed. Instinctively they glanced at one another, listening, and heard a man's fat chuckle beyond the palms.
"I guess this new plan makes it a lot easier than the way we were going to work it."
Simon saw the girl half rising from the settee. In a flash, he had flung one arm round her, pinning her down, and clapped his other hand over her mouth.
"Maybe it'll save a little trouble, anyway," spoke the second man. There came the scratch of a match, and then: "What are you doing about the girl?"
"I don't know… She's a pretty little piece, but she's getting too serious. I'll have to ditch her in Paris."
"She'll be sore."
"Well, she ought to know how to take the breaks. I had to keep her going to get us in here, but it ain't my fault if she wants to make it a permanency."
"What about her share?"
"Aw, I might send her a coupla hundred, just for conscience money. She ain't a bad kid. Too sentimental, that's all."
A short pause, and then the second man again: "Well, that's your business. It's just a quarter past eleven. Guess I better see Watkins and make sure he's ready to fix those lights."
The leisured feet receded again; and Simon released the girl slowly. He saw that she was as white as a sheet, and there were strange tears in her eyes. He lighted a cigarette methodically. It was a tough life for women — always had been. They had to know how to take the breaks.
"Did you hear?" she asked, and he looked at her again.
"I couldn't very well help it. I'm sorry, kid… That was your prospective husband, I suppose?"
She nodded.
"Anyway, you'll know it wasn't an act."
There was nothing he could do. She stood up, and he walked beside her back to the ballroom. She left him there, with a smile that never trembled; and the Saint turned and found Peter Quentin beside him.
"Must you keep all the fun to yourself, old boy?" pleaded Peter forlornly. "I've been treading on the toes of the fattest dowager in the world. Who's your girl friend? She looks a stunner."
"She stunned me once," said the Saint reminiscently. "Or some pals of hers did. She's passing here as Rosamund Armitage; but the police know her best as Kate Allfield, and her nickname is The Mug."
Peter's eyes were following the girl yearningly across the room.
"There ought to be some hideous punishment for bestowing names like that," he declared; and the Saint grinned absent-mindedly.
"I know. In a story-book she'd be Isabelle de la Fontaine; but her parents weren't thinking about her career when they christened her. That's real life in our low profession — and so is the nickname."
"Does that mean there's competition in the field?"
"It means just that." Simon's gaze was sweeping systematically over the other guests; and at that moment he saw the men he was looking for. "You see that dark bird who looks as if he might be a gigolo? Face like a pretty boy, till you see it's just a mask cut in granite… That's Philip Carney. And the big fellow beside him — just offering the Dempster-Craven a cigarette. That's George Runce. They're two of the slickest jewel thieves in the business. Mostly they work the Riviera — I don't think they've been in England for years. Kate was talking in the plural all the time, and I wondered who she meant."
Peter's mouth shaped a silent whistle.
"What's going to happen?"
"I don't know definitely; but I should like to prophesy that at any moment the lights will go out —"
And as he spoke, with a promptness that seemed almost uncanny, the three enormous cut-glass chandeliers which illuminated the ballroom simultaneously flicked out as if a magic wand had conjured them out of existence; and the room was plunged into inky blackness.
The buzz of conversation rose louder, mingled with sporadic laughter. After trying valiantly to carry on for a couple of bars, the orchestra faded out irregularly, and the dancers shuffled to a standstill. Over in one corner, a facetious party started singing, in unison: "Where — was — moses — when — the — lights— went — out?"… And then, rising above every other sound, came Mrs. Dempster-Craven's hysterical shriek:
"Help!"
There was a momentary silence, broken by a few uncertain titters. And Mrs. Dempster-Craven's voice rang wildly through the room again.
"My pendant! My pendant! Put on the lights!"
Then came the sharp vicious smash of a fist against flesh and bone, a coughing grunt, and the thud of a fall. Peter Quentin felt around him, but the Saint had gone. He started across the room, plunging blindly among the crowd that was heaving helplessly in the darkness. Then one or two matches flared up, and the light grew as other matches and Lighters were struck to augment the illumination. And just as suddenly as they had gone out, the great chandeliers lighted up again.
Peter Quentin looked at the scene from the front rank of the circle of guests. George Runce was lying on the floor, with blood trickling from a cut in his chin; and a couple of yards from him sat Simon Templar, holding his jaw tenderly. Between them lay Mrs. Dempster-Craven's priceless pendant, with the chain broken; and while Peter looked she snatched it up with a sob, and he saw that the Star of Mandalay was missing from its centre.
"My diamond!" she wailed. "It's gone!"