Enter the Saint by Leslie Charteris Page B

hushed and reverent atmosphere reminiscent of a cathedral.
    A girl assistant came forward, but in a moment she was displaced by Braddon himself-frock-coated, smooth oleaginous, hands at washing position.
    “This is my manager,” said Hayn, and the frock-coated man bowed. “Mr. Braddon, be so good as to show Miss Chandler some samples of the best of our products-the very best.”
    Thereupon, to the girl’s bewilderment, were displayed velvet-lined mahogany trays, serried ranks of them, brought from the shelves that surrounded the room, and set out with loving care on a counter, one after another, till she felt completely dazed. There were rows upon rows of flashing crystal bottles of scent, golden cohorts of lipsticks, platoons of little alabaster pots of rouge, orderly regiments of enamelled boxes of powder. Her brain reeled before the contemplation of such a massed quantity of luxurious panderings to vanity.
    “I want you to choose anything you like,” said Hayn. “Absolutely anything that takes your fancy, my dear Miss Chandler.”
    “But -I-I couldn’t possibly,” she stammered.
    Hayn waved her objections aside. “I insist,” he said. “What is the use of being master of a place like this if you cannot let your friends enjoy it? Surely I can make you such a small present without any fear of being misunderstood? Accept the trifling gift graciously, my dear lady. I shall feel most hurt if you refuse.”
    In spite of the grotesqueness of his approach, the circumstances made it impossible to snub him. But she was unable to fathom his purpose in making her the object of such an outbreak. It was a hot day, and he was perspiring freely, as a man of his build is unhappily liable to do, and she wondered hysterically if perhaps the heat had temporarily unhinged his brain. There was something subtly disquieting about his exuberance. She modestly chose a small vanity-case and a little flask of perfume, and he seemed disappointed by her reluctance. He pressed other things upon her, and she found herself forced to accept two large boxes of powder.
    “Make a nice parcel of those things for Miss Chandler, Mr. Braddon,” said Hayn, and the manager carried the goods away to the back of the shop.
    “It’s really absurdly kind of you, Mr. Hayn,” said the girl confusedly. “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it.”
    “Your face is your fortune, my dear young lady,” answered Hayn, who was obviously in a brilliant mood.
    She had a terrified suspicion that in a moment he would utter an invitation to lunch, and she hastily begged to be excused on the grounds of an entirely fictitious engagement. “Please don’t think me rude, hurrying away like this,” she pleaded. “As a matter of fact, I’m already shockingly late.”
    He was plainly crestfallen. “No one can help forgiving you anything,” he said sententiously. “But the loss to myself is irreparable.”
    She never knew afterwards how she managed to keep her end up in the exchange of platitudes that followed, until the return of Braddon with a neat package enabled her to make her escape.
    Hayn accompanied her out into the street, hat in hand. “At least,” he said, “promise me that the invitation will not be unwelcome, if I ring you up soon and ask you to suggest a day. I could not bear to think that my company was distasteful to you.”
    “Of course not-I should love to-and thank you ever so much for the powder and things,” she said desperately. “But I must fly now.” She fled as best she might.
    Hayn watched her out of sight, standing stock still in the middle of the pavement where she had left him, with a queer gleam in his pale eyes. Then he put his hat on, and marched off without reentering the shop. He made his way to the club in Soho, where he was informed that Snake Ganning and some of the Boys were waiting to see him. Hayn let them wait while he wrote a letter, which was addressed to M. Henri Chastel, Poste Restante, Athens; and he was