marks, and the remaining twenty-five wouldn’t feed me.”
She stared at him aghast. Her pretty mouth quivered. There was a moistness very close to the tears of sheer hysнterical fright in her eyes.
“But what on earth am I going to do?” she wailed.
Simon lighted a cigarette, and allowed his gaze to return. to her face.
“You’ll just have to walk to Innsbruck with me,” he said.
2
Simon Templar had been cordially disliked by many difнferent people in his time, but rarely with such a wholehearted simplicity as that which Belinda Deane lavished on him the next morning. On the other hand, unpopularity had never lowered his spirits: he strode along carolling to the skies, and meditating on the infinite variety of the accidents of travel.
He had met Belinda Deane arid Jack Easton on the train from Stuttgart a week before. There had been some comнplication about their tickets, and their knowledge of Gerнman was infinitesimal. The Saint, to whom human comнpanionship was the breath of life, and who would seize any excuse to beguile a journey by making the acquaintance of his fellow-travellers, had stepped in as an interpreter. Thereнafter they had gone around Munich together, until Easton had separated to join an old friend-“a great-open-space friend,” he described him-on a short walking trip from Garmisch to Innsbruck by way of Oberammergau. This decision had been the subject of a distressing scene at which Simon had been coerced into the position of umpire.
It was not by any means the first he had witnessed. One glance had been sufficient to tell him that Belinda had been blessed with a face and figure that would make even hard-boiled waiters scramble for the privilege of serving her; but one hour in her company had been enough to show him that they must have been doing it ever since she left her cradle, with the inevitable results. Everything that New England and Paris had to give had been endowed upon her-backнground, breed, education, poise. She could have been taken for the flower of American sophistication at its most perнfect. Intelligence, knowledge, charm-she had them all. She knew exactly the right thing to say and do in any circumнstances; entirely because she had been trained to circumнstances where the same things were always being said and done. Jack Easton, a youngster of less ancient lineage, conнfessed that there were times when she scared him.
“Sometimes she ought to be spanked,” he said once, when he and Simon were alone together after that last scene.
He was annoyed, because the quarrel had consisted of a healthily stubborn bluntness piling up in competition with an increasingly chilly self-possession; and there was someнthing about the Saint which always drew out confidences.
“What she really needs,” said Easton, “is for somebody to club her and drag her off to a desert island and make her wash dishes and dig up her own potatoes.”
“Why don’t you do it?” murmured the Saint.
“Because I know she’d never forgive me as long as she lived. Besides,” said Easton, morosely practical, “I don’t know any desert islands.”
Simon smoked for a time before he replied. The idea had come to him on the spur of the moment, and the more he thought of it the more it made him smile. The troubles of young love had always seemed more worth while to him than most things.
“It wouldn’t matter so much if she never forgave me,” he said. “And it could be done without desert islands.”
Belinda trotted beside him and hated him. The leisurely swing of his long legs was measured to a pace that made her work to keep up with him. His pack rode like a feather on his broad shoulders, and the possibility of fatigue didn’t seem to enter his head. She glanced sidelong at his strong brown profile, down over his check cotton shirt with rolled-up sleeves, his broad leather belt, leather shorts, and bare legs; and hated him still more for the ease of his untramнmeled
She stared at him aghast. Her pretty mouth quivered. There was a moistness very close to the tears of sheer hysнterical fright in her eyes.
“But what on earth am I going to do?” she wailed.
Simon lighted a cigarette, and allowed his gaze to return. to her face.
“You’ll just have to walk to Innsbruck with me,” he said.
2
Simon Templar had been cordially disliked by many difнferent people in his time, but rarely with such a wholehearted simplicity as that which Belinda Deane lavished on him the next morning. On the other hand, unpopularity had never lowered his spirits: he strode along carolling to the skies, and meditating on the infinite variety of the accidents of travel.
He had met Belinda Deane arid Jack Easton on the train from Stuttgart a week before. There had been some comнplication about their tickets, and their knowledge of Gerнman was infinitesimal. The Saint, to whom human comнpanionship was the breath of life, and who would seize any excuse to beguile a journey by making the acquaintance of his fellow-travellers, had stepped in as an interpreter. Thereнafter they had gone around Munich together, until Easton had separated to join an old friend-“a great-open-space friend,” he described him-on a short walking trip from Garmisch to Innsbruck by way of Oberammergau. This decision had been the subject of a distressing scene at which Simon had been coerced into the position of umpire.
It was not by any means the first he had witnessed. One glance had been sufficient to tell him that Belinda had been blessed with a face and figure that would make even hard-boiled waiters scramble for the privilege of serving her; but one hour in her company had been enough to show him that they must have been doing it ever since she left her cradle, with the inevitable results. Everything that New England and Paris had to give had been endowed upon her-backнground, breed, education, poise. She could have been taken for the flower of American sophistication at its most perнfect. Intelligence, knowledge, charm-she had them all. She knew exactly the right thing to say and do in any circumнstances; entirely because she had been trained to circumнstances where the same things were always being said and done. Jack Easton, a youngster of less ancient lineage, conнfessed that there were times when she scared him.
“Sometimes she ought to be spanked,” he said once, when he and Simon were alone together after that last scene.
He was annoyed, because the quarrel had consisted of a healthily stubborn bluntness piling up in competition with an increasingly chilly self-possession; and there was someнthing about the Saint which always drew out confidences.
“What she really needs,” said Easton, “is for somebody to club her and drag her off to a desert island and make her wash dishes and dig up her own potatoes.”
“Why don’t you do it?” murmured the Saint.
“Because I know she’d never forgive me as long as she lived. Besides,” said Easton, morosely practical, “I don’t know any desert islands.”
Simon smoked for a time before he replied. The idea had come to him on the spur of the moment, and the more he thought of it the more it made him smile. The troubles of young love had always seemed more worth while to him than most things.
“It wouldn’t matter so much if she never forgave me,” he said. “And it could be done without desert islands.”
Belinda trotted beside him and hated him. The leisurely swing of his long legs was measured to a pace that made her work to keep up with him. His pack rode like a feather on his broad shoulders, and the possibility of fatigue didn’t seem to enter his head. She glanced sidelong at his strong brown profile, down over his check cotton shirt with rolled-up sleeves, his broad leather belt, leather shorts, and bare legs; and hated him still more for the ease of his untramнmeled
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