The Saint in Europe by Leslie Charteris Page B

masculinity. She had been moved to sarcasm at the expense of his costume in the hotel; but now she tried not to admit that the curious glances of the few people they passed were centered on her. Her light tweed skirt came from Paris, her green suede golfing jacket was the latest thing from Fifth Avenue: from the rudimentary crown of her jaunty little hat to the welts of her green and white buckskin shoes she was as smart and pretty as a picture, and she knew it. It was unjust that smartness should give her no advantage. The Saint sang.
    Give me the life I love,
Let the lave go by me-
    Belinda gritted her small white teeth. She had never done much walking, and after the first few miles she was feeling tired. The fact that the man at her side should have been able to allot the major ration of his breath to singing was like a deliberate affront. She began to wonder for the first time why she should ever have considered his fantastic proposition; but it had seemed like the only practical solution. Even now, she could think of nothing else that she could have done. And from the moment when she had wearily accepted, he had taken charge-registered her luggage to Innsbruck, paid the carriage fees, rushed her to the station, almost abducted her while her mind was still numbed by the shock of inconceivable circumstances … The morning grew hotter, and she struggled out of her jacket.
    “Could you find room for this somewhere?” she asked, like a queen conferring a favour.
    The Saint cocked a clear blue eye at her.
    “Lady,” he said, “this pack weighs twenty-five pounds. Are you sure you can’t manage twelve ounces?”
    She walked on speechlessly.
    The scenery meant nothing to her. Roads were merely the links in an endless trail, which ended tantalizingly at every bend and the crest of every rise, only to lead on again immediately. When he called the first halt, at the end of nearly four hours’ marching, she fell on the duty grass by the roadside and wondered if she would ever be able to get up again.
    “My stockings have got holes in them,” she said.
    He nodded.
    “There’s nothing like plenty of ventilation to keep your feet in condition.”
    She tore her stockings off without a word and threw them away; but her hands trembled. Simon, unmoved, opened his pack and produced foodннcoarse black bread and butter, cheese, and liver sausage.
    “How about some lunch?”
    She looked at the bread down her nose.
    “What’s that stuff?”
    “The most wholesome bread in the world. All the vitaнmins, minerals, and roughage that any dietitian could desire. Preserves the teeth and massages the intestines.”
    “I don’t care for it, thank you.” As a matter of fact, she was at the stage where her stomach felt too tired for food. “All I want is a drink.”
    “We’ll stop at the next village and get some beer.”
    “I don’t drink beer.”
    The Saint ploughed appreciatively on into his massive hunk of bread.
    “The water should be all right in that stream over there,” he said, indicating it with a movement of his hand.
    “Are you suggesting,” she inquired icily, “that I should go down on all fours and lap it up like a cow?”
    Simon chewed.
    “Like a gazelle,” he said, “would be more poetic.”
    She closed her eyes and lay there motionlessly; and if he sensed the simmering of the volcano he gave no sign of it. He ate his fill and smoked a cigarette; then he walked over to the stream, drank frugally, and bathed his face. When he came back she was sitting up. He strapped his pack and hoisted it deftly.
    “Ready?”

Somehow she picked herself up. Her muscles had stifнfened during the rest, and it was agony to squeeze her feet back into her shoes, which were cut for appearance rather than comfort. Only a strained and crackling obstinacy drew the effort out of her: the mockery of his cool blue gaze told her only too frankly that he was waiting for her to break down, and she wondered how long she would be able