He sat at ease in the comfortable little flat near Sloane Square, which he had established long ago as a reserve base against the day when a hue and cry might make his home in Upper Berkeley Mews too hot to hold him. A cup of coffee stood in front of him and a cigarette was between his fingers; and, across the table, he looked into the golden eyes of Jill Trelawney, and made his speech.
"But, Jill," he protested, "there is a far-away look about you. Is it indigestion or love?"
She smiled abstractedly.
"I'm thinking about Essenden," she said.
"So it's love," said the Saint.
"I'm wondering—"
"Seriously, why? In the last twenty-four hours we've devoted ourselves entirely to Essenden. Personally, I'm ready to give the subject a rest. We've done our stuff, for the moment. The egg, so to speak, is on hatch. The worm is on the hook. All we can do now, for a while, is to sit tight and wait."
"Do you think he'll rise?"
"I've told you," said the Saint extravagantly, "he'll rise like a loaf overloaded with young and vigorous yeast. He'll rise so high that pheasants and red herrings won't be in the same street with him. When he's finished rising, he'll have such an altitude that he'll have to climb a ladder to take his shoes off. That's what I say. Take it from me, Jill."
The girl stirred her coffee reflectively.
"All the same," she said, "like all fishing, it's a gamble."
"Not with that fish and that bait, it isn't," answered the Saint. "It's a cinch. Look here. We put the wind up his lordship. We fan into his pants a vertical draught strong enough to lift him through his hat. There's no error about that. So what can he do? He must either (a) sit tight and get ready to face the music, (b) go out and get run over by a bus, or (c) prepare a counter-attack. Well, he's not likely to do (a). If he does (b), we're saved a lot of trouble and hard work. If he does (c) —"
"Yes," said the girl. "If he does (c) —"
"He plays right into our hands. He comes out of balk. And once he's in play, we can make our break. Burn it—!"
Simon put out his cigarette and leaned forward.
"This isn't like you, Jill," he said. "It isn't like anything I've ever heard about you; and it certainly isn't a bit like the form you were showing this time last week. Don't tell me your nerve's going soft in the small of the back, because I shan't believe you."
"But what's he likely to do?"
Simon shrugged.
"Heaven knows," he said. "I tell you, our job is just to stand around the landscape and wait. And who cares?"
Jill Trelawney lighted a cigarette and smiled.
"You're right, Simon Templar," she said. "I'm getting morbid. I'm starting to get the idea that things have been just a bit too easy for me — all along. You know how much I've got away with already, and you ought to know that nobody ever gets away with the whole works for ever."
"I do," said the Saint cheerfully.
She nodded absently. For a moment the tawny eyes looked right through him. It was extraordinarily humiliating, and at the same time provocative, that feeling which, the eyes gave him for an instant — that, for a moment, he was not there at all, or she was not there at all. Although she heard him, she was quite alone with what she was thinking.
And then she saw him again.
"Do you know, you're the last partner I ever thought I should have," she said; and the Saint inhaled gently.
"I shouldn't be surprised."
"And yet… you remember when you reminded me of that boy of mine back in the States?" The golden eyes absorbed his smile. "That was a mean crack… I suppose I deserved it."
"You did."
"It made a difference."
Simon raised his eyebrows; but the mockery was without malice.
"After which," he murmured, "you shot Stephen Weald."
"Wouldn't you have done the same?"
"I should. Exactly the same. And that's the point. You might have left it to me, but I stood aside because I figured he was your onion… Which was half-witted, if you come to think of it, because if we'd kept him we could have made him squeal. But who am I to spoil sport."
"I know."
"But we go on with the good work, so why worry?"
She nodded slowly.
"Yes, we go on. Maybe it won't be long now."
"And that boy of yours?"
"He thinks I'm travelling around improving my mind." She laughed. "I suppose I am, if you look at it that way…"
And there was a silence.
And in that simple silence began an understanding that needed no explanations. For the Saint always knew exactly what to leave unsaid… And when, presently, he reached out a long arm to crush his last cigarette into an ashtray, glanced at the clock, and stood up, the movement fitted spontaneously into the comfortable quiet which had settled down upon the evening.
"Do you realize," he said easily, "that's it's nearly midnight, and we've had a busy day?"
Her smile thanked him, and he remembered it after she had left the room and he sat by the fire smoking a final cigarette and meditating the events of the last twenty-four hours.
Adventures to the adventurous. Simon Templar called himself an adventurer. What other people called him is nobody's business. Certainly he had had what he wanted, in more ways than one, and the standard of enterprise and achievement which he had set himself from the very beginning of his career showed no signs of slacking off. It was only recently that he had started to realize that there was more for him to do in life than he had ever known… And yet, just then, he was quite contented. Simon Templar's philosophical outlook on life was his strong suit. It kept him young. As long as something interesting was happening he was quite happy. He was quite happy that night.
For complete contentment he required well-balanced alternations of excitement and peaceful self-satisfaction. At the beginning of his cigarette he was enjoying the peaceful self-satisfaction. Halfway through the cigarette, the front door bell rang curtly and crisply, and the Saint came slowly to his feet with a speculative little frown.
He was not expecting to receive callers at that address, apart from tradesmen, because it had never been registered in his own name. And in any case, when he came back to London this time there had been no notices in the newspapers to say that Mr. Simon Templar had returned to town and would be delighted to hear from any friends and/or acquaintances who cared to look him up. For obvious reasons. The Saint had never been notorious for hiding his light under any unnecessary bushels, but he always knew precisely when to remain discreetly in the background. He had learnt the art in his cradle, and this was one of the periods when he applied it energetically. It was therefore a practical certainty that the visitor would be unwelcome; but Simon opened the door with a bland smile, for he was always interested to meet any trouble that happened to be coming his way.
"Why, if it isn't Claud Eustace!" he exclaimed, and stood aside to allow the caller to enter.
"Yes, it's me," said Mr. Teal heavily.
He came in, and oozed through the miniature hall into the sitting room. Simon Templar followed him in.
"What can I do for you? Do you want a tip for the Two Thousand, or have you come to borrow money?"
Inspector Teal carefully unwrapped a wafer of chewing gum and posted — it in his red face.
"Saint," said Teal drowsily, "I hear you've been a naughty boy again."