"Come here."
She came, after a pause, with a bored languidness; but it was impossible to make him show the least impatience.
"See there!"
He pointed down with a challenging forefinger.
"See and hear that man singing 'Rose in the Bud' at the harmonium? He's just waiting for me to come out and tell him he can go home. And you see the man farther up with the ice-cream cart? He's standing by. And the man selling newspapers on this side? More of the posse. You credited me with the darn thing, so I thought I'd live up to it. There's ten of 'em spread around this block now!"
"I'm sorry. I thought even your word of honour might be worth something. But now—"
"You'll know better next time, won't you?" Little flinty jags of amusement twinkled in his eyes. "What was the joke I was supposed to buy? Pinky Budd waiting downstairs in the hall with a handful of Angels? Or just a button you press up here that starts off the trapdoor and the electric banister rail and the mechanical gadget in the thirteenth stair?"
She faced him, flaming now without the slightest attempt at concealment, suddenly transformed into a beautiful tigress.
"You think you're clever — Saint!"
"I'm darn sure of it," murmured the Saint, modestly.
"You think—"
"Often and brilliantly. I kicked up the rug before I stepped on it, and saw the edge of the trap. I'm always suspicious of iron banister rails on indoor staircases. And the thirteenth stair gave an inch under my weight, so I ducked. But nothing happened. Rather lucky for you the things weren't working — in the circumstances — isn't it?"
It was bewildering to think that the girl, according to official records, was only twenty-two. Simon Templar treated her like a petulant child because it pleased him to do so. But in that moment he recognized her anger as a grown reality with nothing childish in it. That he chose to keep the recognition to himself was nobody's business.
"No one will stop you going back to your posse, Templar."
"I didn't think anyone would."
He glanced at his watch.
"They'll be expecting me in another five minutes. I only came because I didn't want to disappoint you — and because I thought you might have something interesting to say."
"I've nothing more to — say."
"But lots of things to do?"
"Possibly."
That extraordinarily mocking smile bared his teeth.
"If only," he murmured softly — "if only your father could hear those sweet words fall from your gentle lips!"
"You'll leave my father out of it—"
"You'd like me to, wouldn't you? But that won't make me do it."
There was a renewed hardness in her eyes that had no right to be there.
"My father was framed," she said in a low voice.
"There was a proper inquiry. An assistant commissioner of police isn't dismissed in disgrace for nothing. And is that an excuse for anything you do, anyway?"
"It satisfies me."
Her voice held a depth of passion that for a moment turned even Simon Templar into a sober listener. She had never flinched from his sardonically bantering stare, and now she met it more defiantly than ever. She went on, in that low, passionate voice: "The shock killed him. You know it could have been nothing else but that. And he died denying the charge—"
"So you think you've a right to take vengeance on the department for him?"
"They condemned him for a thing he'd never done. And the mud sticks to me as well, still, a year after his death. So I'll give them something to condemn me for."
The Saint looked at her.
"And what about that boy over in the States?" he asked quietly, and saw her start.
"What do you know about him?" she asked.
The Saint shrugged.
"It's surprising what a lot of odd things I know," he answered. "I think we may talk some more on that subject one day — Jill. Some day when you've forgotten this nonsense, and the Angels of Doom have grown their tails."
For a span of silence he held her eyes steadily — the big golden eyes which, he knew by his own instinct, were made for such gentle things as the softness into which he had betrayed them for a moment. And then that instant's light died out of them again, and the tawny hardness returned. She laughed a little.
"I'll go back when the slate's clean," she said; and so the Saint slipped lightly back into the role he had chosen to play.
"You missed your vocation," he said sweetly. "You ought to have been writing detective stories. Vengeance — and the Angels of Doom! Joke!"
He swung round in his smooth sweeping way and picked his hat out of the chair. Weald seemed about to say something, and, meeting the Saint's suddenly direct and interrogative gaze, refrained. Simon looked at the girl again.
"I'm leaving," he said. "We shall meet again. Quite soon. I promised to get you in three weeks, and two and a half days of it have gone. But I'll do it, don't you worry!"
"I'm not worrying, Templar. And next time you give me your word of honour—"
"Be suspicious of everything I say," Simon advised. "I have moments of extreme cunning, as you'll get to know. Good-afternoon, sweetheart."
He went put, leaving the door open, and walked down the stairs. He saw Pinky Budd standing in the hall with six men drawn up impassively behind him; but it would have taken more than that, at any time, to make Simon Templar's steps falter.
The girl spoke from the top of the stairs.
"Mr. Templar is leaving, Pinky. His men are waiting for him outside."
"Now that," said the Saint, "is tough luck on you — isn't it, Pinky?"
He walked straight for the door, and the guard stood aside without a word to give him gangway. Only Budd stood his ground, and Simon halted in front of him.
"Getting in my way, Pinky?"
Budd looked at him with narrowed, glittering eyes. They were of a height as they stood, but Budd would have been a couple of inches taller if he had straightened his huge hunched shoulders. His long arms hung loosely at his sides, and the ham-like fists at the end of them were clenched.
"Nope, I'm not getting in your way. But I'll come 'n' find you again soon, Templar. See?"
"Do."
The Saint's hand came flat in the middle of Budd's chest and overbalanced him out of the road. And Simon Templar went through to the door.
A few strides up the street he stopped and laid half a crown on a harmonium.
"Do you know a song called 'A Farewell'?" he asked.
"Yes, sir," said the serenader.
"Play it for me," said the Saint. "And miss out the middle verse."
He went on towards Buckingham Palace Road as soon as he had heard the introductory bars moaned out on the machine; and his departure was watched by vengeful eyes from the drawing-room window.
"You let him get clean away," snivelled Weald. "We had him—"
"Don't be an imbecile!" snapped the girl. "He only came to see if he could tempt us into doing anything foolish. And if we had, he'd have been tickled to death. And I just asked him to come so I could get to know a little more about him, for future reference. He's—"
"What's that bull with the organ singing?"
They listened. The words of the unmelodious performance came clearly to their ears. The troubadour, startled by the magnitude of the Saint's largesse, was putting his heart into the job.
"I saw Templar speak to him—"
"Shut up, you fool!"