Chapter IV
A Social Evening
“No,” said the Saint, shaking his head sadly, “it can’t be done. It can’t really. For one thing, we’re getting all melodramatic, and I know how you hate that. For another thing, we’ve got the set all wrong. You’ve got to get into training for looking evil—just now, you’re as harmless-looking a blackguard as I’ve ever met. I’m strong for getting the atmosphere right. What d’you say to adjourning, and we can arrange to meet in Limehouse in about two months, which’ll give you time to grow a beard and develop a cast in one eye and employ a few tame thugs by way of local colour. . . .”
The Saint rambled on in his free-and-easy manner, while his brain dealt rapidly with the situation. Bittle had not raised his automatic. It pointed innocuously into the carpet, held as loosely as it could be without falling, for Simon’s eyes were narrowed down to glinting chips of steel that missed nothing, and Sir John Bittle had an uncomfortable feeling that those eyes were keen enough to note the slightest tightening of a muscle. The Saint was giving an admirable imitation of a man pretending to be off his guard, but the millionaire knew that the sight of the least threatening movement would telegraph an instant message to the hand that played with that slim little knife—and the Saint’s general manner suggested that he felt calmly confident of being able to reproduce any and every stunt in any and every Mexican knife-throwing act that ever was, with a few variations and trimmings of his own.
“You are not conversational, Bittle,” said the Saint, and Bittle smiled.
“My style is, to say the least of it, cramped,” replied the millionaire. “If I move, what are the chances of my being pricked with your pretty toy?”
“Depends how you move,” answered the Saint. “If, for instance, you relaxed the right hand, so as to allow the ugly toy now reposing there to descend upon the carpet with what is known to journalists as a sickening thud—then, I might say that the chances are about one thousand to one against.”
Bittle opened his hand, and the gun dropped. He stepped to one side, and the Saint, with a swift sweeping glide, picked up the weapon and dropped it into his pocket. At the same time he replaced his own weapon in its concealed sheath.
“Now we can be matey again,” remarked Simon with satisfaction. “What’s the next move? Taking things in a broad way, I can’t credit your bunch with much brilliance so far. Dear old Spittle, why on earth must you make such an appalling bloomer? Don’t you know that according to the rules of this game you ought to remain shrouded in mystery until