morning it came to me in a flash. He reminded me of Karl.”
“That,” said the Saint, “is really interesting.”
He turned and glanced at her again. She was still looking past him, half frowning, perplexed and
uncertain of herself.
“What was the rest of his name?” he asked.
“Morgen.”
Simon put out his
cigarette.
“I
think,” he said, “it might be fun to talk to Comrade Mor gen.”
She stood up when
he did and started to go with him, but he checked her with a hand on her arm.
“No,
darling,” he said. “For one thing, I’d rather surprise him. For
another thing, if it really is Karl, and not just Karl on your mind, there may be a little horseplay when we
meet. And lastly, I’d rather keep you out of sight as
much as possible —for all purposes. In fact,
I don’t even want you to answer the
telephone again. And if anyone does call except your fa ther, tell Mrs. Cook to say you’re still in
Washington.” He smiled at her
confusion. “You forget that at this moment the Ungodly don’t know where you are. And the longer
that lasts, the longer it’ll be
before I have to worry about your health again.”
He went out of the house, crossed the driveway, and moved off among the trees.
The laboratory was on the other side of the house and in the opposite direction from the way he set off; and he made
a wide circle to approach it from the far
side—the side from which no intruder
would be expecting an interruption.
His feet made no
sound on the grass, and he slipped through shrubbery
and woodland with the phantom stealth of an In dian scout. He had an
instinct for cover and terrain that was faultless and effortless: not once
after he merged into the landscape was he exposed from any angle from which he
could anticipate being watched for.
And
under the cool efficiency of his movements he could feel a faint tingle along
his veins that was his prescience of the disintegration of inaction and the promise of pursuit
and fight. If Madeline Gray
hadn’t imagined what she saw, and there actually was an uninvited visitor out there, he would certainly be an interesting character to hold
converse with— wherever he came from. And if
the visitor really was a man with the
dubious name and history of Karl Morgen, he might be the one missing
quantity that Simon had just been idly complaining about. If, wildly and
gorgeously beyond that, he crowned everything
by proving to be one of the frustrated kidnapers
of the night before—then indeed there would be moments of great joy in store. Anything so perfect as that seemed almost too much to expect; and yet, if even
a fraction of those exquisite
possibilities came true, it would still be more than enough to justify the tentative rapture that was stealing along the
Saint’s relaxed and tranquil nerves. He had always hated fighting in the dark, waiting to be shot at,
the whole negative and passive
rigamarole of puzzling and guessing and weighing of abstractions: if there was an end of that now, even for a
little while, it would be a beautiful interlude …
Towards
the end of his excursion, a tall cypress hedge of fered perfect invisibility. He went along the edge, of
a field of oat hay for a hundred
yards, and squeezed through another gap in the
hedge into the concealment of a clump of rhodo dendron bushes. The laboratory building was so close then that he could see the roof over the top of his
shelter.
Working around to
the limit of his cover, he was finally able to
sight one of the windows through the thinning fringe of leaves.
He
saw more than the window. He saw through it. And all the inside of him became blissfully quiet as he saw that at least a part
of his prayers had been granted.
There was a man
in the laboratory.
And more than that, it wasn’t just any man.
Simon couldn’t
see any details clearly in the darker interior, but he was able to distinguish a rough triangle of solid color where
the lower part of the man’s face should have been. Per haps
“That,” said the Saint, “is really interesting.”
He turned and glanced at her again. She was still looking past him, half frowning, perplexed and
uncertain of herself.
“What was the rest of his name?” he asked.
“Morgen.”
Simon put out his
cigarette.
“I
think,” he said, “it might be fun to talk to Comrade Mor gen.”
She stood up when
he did and started to go with him, but he checked her with a hand on her arm.
“No,
darling,” he said. “For one thing, I’d rather surprise him. For
another thing, if it really is Karl, and not just Karl on your mind, there may be a little horseplay when we
meet. And lastly, I’d rather keep you out of sight as
much as possible —for all purposes. In fact,
I don’t even want you to answer the
telephone again. And if anyone does call except your fa ther, tell Mrs. Cook to say you’re still in
Washington.” He smiled at her
confusion. “You forget that at this moment the Ungodly don’t know where you are. And the longer
that lasts, the longer it’ll be
before I have to worry about your health again.”
He went out of the house, crossed the driveway, and moved off among the trees.
The laboratory was on the other side of the house and in the opposite direction from the way he set off; and he made
a wide circle to approach it from the far
side—the side from which no intruder
would be expecting an interruption.
His feet made no
sound on the grass, and he slipped through shrubbery
and woodland with the phantom stealth of an In dian scout. He had an
instinct for cover and terrain that was faultless and effortless: not once
after he merged into the landscape was he exposed from any angle from which he
could anticipate being watched for.
And
under the cool efficiency of his movements he could feel a faint tingle along
his veins that was his prescience of the disintegration of inaction and the promise of pursuit
and fight. If Madeline Gray
hadn’t imagined what she saw, and there actually was an uninvited visitor out there, he would certainly be an interesting character to hold
converse with— wherever he came from. And if
the visitor really was a man with the
dubious name and history of Karl Morgen, he might be the one missing
quantity that Simon had just been idly complaining about. If, wildly and
gorgeously beyond that, he crowned everything
by proving to be one of the frustrated kidnapers
of the night before—then indeed there would be moments of great joy in store. Anything so perfect as that seemed almost too much to expect; and yet, if even
a fraction of those exquisite
possibilities came true, it would still be more than enough to justify the tentative rapture that was stealing along the
Saint’s relaxed and tranquil nerves. He had always hated fighting in the dark, waiting to be shot at,
the whole negative and passive
rigamarole of puzzling and guessing and weighing of abstractions: if there was an end of that now, even for a
little while, it would be a beautiful interlude …
Towards
the end of his excursion, a tall cypress hedge of fered perfect invisibility. He went along the edge, of
a field of oat hay for a hundred
yards, and squeezed through another gap in the
hedge into the concealment of a clump of rhodo dendron bushes. The laboratory building was so close then that he could see the roof over the top of his
shelter.
Working around to
the limit of his cover, he was finally able to
sight one of the windows through the thinning fringe of leaves.
He
saw more than the window. He saw through it. And all the inside of him became blissfully quiet as he saw that at least a part
of his prayers had been granted.
There was a man
in the laboratory.
And more than that, it wasn’t just any man.
Simon couldn’t
see any details clearly in the darker interior, but he was able to distinguish a rough triangle of solid color where
the lower part of the man’s face should have been. Per haps
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