ears alone, and Simon turned away with a pained expression.
“I don’t agree,” said Simon. “The Ten-Toed Tripe-Hopper is nothing like the Wall-Eyed ‘Giraffe. Try Keating’s.”
“As a matter of fact,” interposed Patricia, who felt that things looked like getting out of hand, “Mr. Templar’s been with me most of the evening. We were taking a walk along by the cliff, and—” Simon raised his hand.
“Hush!” he said. “Not before the Doc. You’ll be -putting ideas into his head.”
“Grrrr,” said Carn fiercely, which a man might well say when goaded to the limits of human endurance, and then he coughed energetically to cover it up.
“You see?” said the Saint. “You’re embarrassing him.”
Simon was perfect. His Smiling, polished ease made Carn’s red-faced discomfort look like an intentional effort of the detective to entertain a children’s party with a few “faces” between the ice creams and the Punch and Judy, and Patricia was weak with suppressed laughter. It was unpardonable, of course, but it was the only way to dispose of Carn’s burning curiosity. To have been secretive and mysterious, much as the Saint would have loved playing the part, would have been fatal.
Carn suddenly realized that he was being futile— that the elasticity of his leg was being sorely tried. The Saint had been watching for that, and instantly he became genuinely apologetic.
“Perhaps I ragged you a bit too much,” he hastened to confess. “Really, though, you were asking for it, by being so infernally suspicious. Almost as if you suspected me of just having murdered somebody, or robbing the till of the village post office. It’s really quite simple. Miss Holm and I were walking along the cliffs, and—”
“I fell over,” Patricia explained, jumping in as soon as the Saint hesitated. “I landed on a ledge, and I wasn’t seriously hurt, but Mr. Templar had an awful job getting me back.”
Carn frowned. He had been badly had. The Saint’s merciless leg pulling had achieved its object. So masterly was the transition from teasing to sober seriousness that the seriousness went unquestioned, and Carn swallowed whole a story that he would certainly have disbelieved if it had been told him in the first place without any nonsense.
“No offence, old thing,” pleaded the Saint contritely. “I couldn’t miss such a marvellous opportunity to make you imagine the worst.”
Carn looked from one to the other; but Patricia, pulling her weight and more also, met the detective’s searching stare unabashed, and the Saint’s face displayed exactly what the Saint wanted it to display.
“I tried to tell you once,” Patricia pointed out, “only Mr. Templar interrupted.”
Simon flashed her a boatload of appreciation in a glance. Ye gods! What a girl! There wasn’t an actress in the world who could have taught her anything about the kind of acting that gets over without any stage effects—she had every woman in every Secret Service in Europe skun a mile. There she was, cool as you please, playing up to her cue like an old hand. And, marvel of marvels, asking no questions. The Saint hadn’t the foggiest notion why a girl he’d known only a couple of days should back him up like that, when every flag on the mast would have told any ordinary person that the Saint was more likely to be wrong than not. Ordinary respectable people did not go in for the hobbies that she had seen the Saint indulging in—like bending statuettes over millionaire knight’s skulls after walking mysteriously out of the night through their library windows, or being chased round gardens by men and bloodhounds, or chucking their lady friends over eight-foot walls. And yet she trusted him implicitly, took her line from him, and postponed the questions till afterward! And not the least remarkable fact was that the Saint, that consummate egotist, never thought of the obvious explanation. …
Carn reddened again, recovered his normal
“I don’t agree,” said Simon. “The Ten-Toed Tripe-Hopper is nothing like the Wall-Eyed ‘Giraffe. Try Keating’s.”
“As a matter of fact,” interposed Patricia, who felt that things looked like getting out of hand, “Mr. Templar’s been with me most of the evening. We were taking a walk along by the cliff, and—” Simon raised his hand.
“Hush!” he said. “Not before the Doc. You’ll be -putting ideas into his head.”
“Grrrr,” said Carn fiercely, which a man might well say when goaded to the limits of human endurance, and then he coughed energetically to cover it up.
“You see?” said the Saint. “You’re embarrassing him.”
Simon was perfect. His Smiling, polished ease made Carn’s red-faced discomfort look like an intentional effort of the detective to entertain a children’s party with a few “faces” between the ice creams and the Punch and Judy, and Patricia was weak with suppressed laughter. It was unpardonable, of course, but it was the only way to dispose of Carn’s burning curiosity. To have been secretive and mysterious, much as the Saint would have loved playing the part, would have been fatal.
Carn suddenly realized that he was being futile— that the elasticity of his leg was being sorely tried. The Saint had been watching for that, and instantly he became genuinely apologetic.
“Perhaps I ragged you a bit too much,” he hastened to confess. “Really, though, you were asking for it, by being so infernally suspicious. Almost as if you suspected me of just having murdered somebody, or robbing the till of the village post office. It’s really quite simple. Miss Holm and I were walking along the cliffs, and—”
“I fell over,” Patricia explained, jumping in as soon as the Saint hesitated. “I landed on a ledge, and I wasn’t seriously hurt, but Mr. Templar had an awful job getting me back.”
Carn frowned. He had been badly had. The Saint’s merciless leg pulling had achieved its object. So masterly was the transition from teasing to sober seriousness that the seriousness went unquestioned, and Carn swallowed whole a story that he would certainly have disbelieved if it had been told him in the first place without any nonsense.
“No offence, old thing,” pleaded the Saint contritely. “I couldn’t miss such a marvellous opportunity to make you imagine the worst.”
Carn looked from one to the other; but Patricia, pulling her weight and more also, met the detective’s searching stare unabashed, and the Saint’s face displayed exactly what the Saint wanted it to display.
“I tried to tell you once,” Patricia pointed out, “only Mr. Templar interrupted.”
Simon flashed her a boatload of appreciation in a glance. Ye gods! What a girl! There wasn’t an actress in the world who could have taught her anything about the kind of acting that gets over without any stage effects—she had every woman in every Secret Service in Europe skun a mile. There she was, cool as you please, playing up to her cue like an old hand. And, marvel of marvels, asking no questions. The Saint hadn’t the foggiest notion why a girl he’d known only a couple of days should back him up like that, when every flag on the mast would have told any ordinary person that the Saint was more likely to be wrong than not. Ordinary respectable people did not go in for the hobbies that she had seen the Saint indulging in—like bending statuettes over millionaire knight’s skulls after walking mysteriously out of the night through their library windows, or being chased round gardens by men and bloodhounds, or chucking their lady friends over eight-foot walls. And yet she trusted him implicitly, took her line from him, and postponed the questions till afterward! And not the least remarkable fact was that the Saint, that consummate egotist, never thought of the obvious explanation. …
Carn reddened again, recovered his normal
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