"You look fairly sane," she said.
"I used to think so myself," said Monty amusedly. "It's only when I come out in a rash and find myself biting postmen in the leg that I have my doubts."
"Then you might let me share the joke."
"My dear, I'd like to share lots of things with you. But that one isn't my own property."
The full blaze of her unaffected loveliness would have dazzled a lesser man.
"Weren't you ever warned that it's dangerous to tease an inquisitive woman?"
Monty laughed.
"Why not have half my shirt instead?" he suggested cheerfully; and then the sudden check of the train as the brakes came on literally threw her into his arms.
He restored her gently to her balance, and found himself abstractedly fingering the butt of the gun in his pocket while she apologized. He needed the concrete reminder of that cold, metallic contact to fetch him back to the outlook from which he had been trying to escape—the view of his corner of the world as a place where murder and sudden death were commonplaces, and freedom continued only as the reward of a ceaseless vigilance.
"That's all right," he said absently. "You didn't have to help yourself to it. If you'd asked me for it I'd have given it to you."
He kept his hand in his pocket and stared out of a window at the finest angle that he could manage. Instinct alone told him that the stoppage had nothing to do with any ordinary incident of the journey—it was the hint that he had been waiting for, the zero signal that strung up his nerves to the last brittle ounce of expectation. Beside him, the girl was saying something; but he never had the vaguest idea what it was. He was listening for an intimation of how the typhoon would burst, knowing beyond all possibility of evasion that the break-up was as inevitable as the collapse of a house of cards. For a moment he felt like a man who has just seen the tail of a slow fuse vanishing into a cask of gunpowder: the uncanny hush that had settled down after the train pulled up seemed to span out to the cracking brink of eternity. He heard the sibilant hiss of the Westinghouse valves, the subdued mutter of voices from a dozen compartments, the distant clank of a coupling shaking down into equilibrium; but his brain was striving to tune through those normal sounds to the first whisper of the abnormal—speculating whether it would come as a babel of enraged throats or the unequivocal stammer of artillery.
Then a door was flung open up at the northward end of the carriage, and the heavy tread of official-sounding boots made his heart miss a beat. Out of the corner of his eye he saw two men in uniform advancing down the passage. They stopped at the first compartment and barked a question; and the chattering of the group of Italians farther up died away abruptly. A deeper stillness lapped down on the perspective, and through it Monty heard the question repeated and the boots moving on.
He felt the girl gripping his arm and heard her speaking again.
"Say, don't you Englishmen ever get excited? Somebody's pulled the communication cord. Boy, isn't that thrilling?"
Monty nodded. The officials came nearer, interrogating each compartment as they reached it. One of them turned aside to accost him with the same standardized inquiry, and Monty schooled his features to the requisite expression of sheep-like repudiation.
"Nein—ich habe nichts gehört."
The inquisition passed on, and the group of Italians trailed gaping after them. A fresh buzz of conversation broke out along the carriage.
Monty found the girl eyeing him indignantly.
"Were you trying to kid me you didn't speak German?" she demanded.
He faced her shamelessly.
"I must have forgotten it for the moment."
"Anyway," she affirmed, "I'm going to see what it's all about This is much too good to miss."
Monty looked at her steadily. He realized that he had put his foot in it from nearly every conceivable aspect, but it was too late to draw back.
"I should keep out of it if I were you," he said quietly, and there was that in his tone which ought to have told her that he was in earnest.
He walked past her without giving her time to reply, and went through to the tiny lobby at the end of the coach. It was pure intuition, again, which told him that the stopping of the train must have its repercussions outside—whoever had given the alarm. He opened the door at one side and looked out, but he could discover no exterior symptoms of a disturbance; then he crossed to the other side, and the first thing he saw was Simon Templar skidding elegantly down the embankment towards the trees. A second later he saw that Patricia Holm was already at the foot of the slope: the Saint was taking his time, glancing back over his shoulder as he went.
It was Monty Hayward that the Saint was looking for, and the sight he had of him was a considerable relief.
"If you stayed well back among that timber, Pat, you might live a long time," he murmured. "I don't think Marcovitch'll run the risk of taking pot shots at us now, but it's best to be on the safe side."
He waved to the figure in the doorway and strolled along the bottom of the embankment to meet him. It was not entirely typical of the Saint that he scorned to follow his own advice and take cover, but Simon was beginning to feel that he had done a lot of work that day with his rudder to the wind, and that unheroic position had lost a great deal of its charm. He waited until Monty had scrambled down to the low level before he turned off and steered him through a narrow path into the shelter of the wood; and his recklessness was justified by the fact that there was no more shooting.
"I'm afraid this is good-bye to our luggage," said the Saint, by way of explanation, "but let's think what we've saved in death duties."
"Was it as bad as that?" asked Monty; and Simon laughed.
"I reckon a swell time was had by all."
They came out into a small clearing around the roots of a giant elm, and at the same tune Patricia Holm threaded her way through the shrubbery on the opposite side and joined them under the tree.
From where they stood they could get a strip view of the train without being seen. An assortment of passengers from various carriages had climbed out and scattered themselves along the permanent way; a few of them were dislocating their necks in the attempt to peer through into the depths of the wood, but the majority were heading excitedly down to add their personalities to the knot of gesticulating orators who were thumping the air beside the brake van. The principal performers appeared to be Marcovitch, the two uniformed officials, and the lady with the Pekinese. Flourishing their arms wildly towards the unresponsive heavens on the rare occasions when words failed them, they were engaged in shouting each other down with a tireless vociferousness that would have gladdened the heart of an argumentative Frenchman. It was several minutes before the lady in black bombazine began to turn purple for lack of breath; and then the Pekinese, seizing its chance, rushed into the conference with a series of strident yaps which worthily maintained the standard of uproar. Simon gathered that Marcovitch was keeping his end up with no great difficulty. His voice, when it rose above the oratorio, could be heard speaking passionately of bandits, thieves, robbers, murderers, battles, perils, pursuits, escapes, and his own remarkable perspicacity and valour; and the generous pantomime of his hands supplied everything that was drowned by the persistence of the other speakers. From time to time the other members of his party chimed in with their corroboration.
"That little skunk'll qualify himself for a medal before he's through," said the Saint fascinatedly. "He's the loveliest liar since Ulysses."