driver obeyed.
The fact that, having been given no destination to drive to, he was quietly steering his passengers in the direction of the nearest police station, is of no great historical interest. For when he reached the station he was without passengers; and the officials who heard his story were inclined to cast grave doubts upon that worthy citizen’s sobriety, until confirmation of some of his statements arrived through another channel.
Stella Domford and the Saint had quietly left him in a convenient traffic block; for Simon had much more to do in the next twenty-four hours, and he was in no mood to be delayed by embarrassing inquiries.
7
“And if that doesn’t learn you, my girl,” said the Saint, a trifle grimly, “nothing ever will.”
They were in a room in the hotel where the girl had parked her luggage before proceeding to the interview with Einsmann. The Saint, with a cigarette between his lips and a glass tankard of dark syrupy Kulmbach on the table beside him, was sitting on the bed, bandaging his arm with two white linen handkerchiefs torn into strips. Stella Domford stood by shame facedly.
“I’m sorry I was such a fool,” she said.
Simon looked up at her. She was very pale, but this was not the pallor of anger with which she had begun the day.
“Can I help you with that?” she asked.
“It’s nothing,” he said cheerfully. “I’m never hurt. It’s a gift… .”
He secured his effort with a safety pin, and rolled down his sleeve. Then he gave her one of his quick, impulsive smiles.
“Anyway,” he said, “you’ve seen some Life. And that was what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
“You can’t make me feel worse than I do already.”
He laughed and stood up; and she looked round as his hands fell on her shoulders.
“Why worry, old dear?” he said. “It’s turned out all right- so what the hell? You don’t even have to rack your brains to think of an unfutile way of saying ‘Thank you.’ I’ve loved it. The pleasure of shooting Jacob in the tum-tum was worth a dozen of these scratches. So let’s leave it at that.” He ruffled her hair absently. “And now we’ll beat it back to England, shall we?”
He turned away, and picked up his coat.
“Are you leaving now?” she asked in surprise.
Simon nodded.
“I’m afraid we must. In the first place, this evening’s mirth and horseplay is liable to start a certain hue and cry after me in this bouncing burg. I don’t know that that alone would make me jump for the departure platform; but there’s also a man I want to see in England-about a sort of dog. I’m sorry about the rush, but things always seem to happen to me in a hurry. Are you ready?”
They landed for a late meal at Amsterdam; and they had not long left Schiphol behind when the darkness and the monotonous roar of the engine soothed Stella Dornford into a deep sleep of sheer nervous weariness. She awoke when the engine was suddenly silenced, and found that they were gliding down into the pale half-light before dawn.
“I think there’s enough light to make a landing here,” Simon answered her question through the telephones. “I don’t want to have to go on to Croydon.”
There was, at least, enough light for the Saint to make a perfect landing; and he taxied up to the deserted hangars and left the machine there for the mechanics to find in the morning. Then he went in search of his car.
In the car, again, she slept; and it is therefore not surprising that she never thought of Francis Lemuel until after the Saint had unloaded her into one of the friendliest sitting rooms she had ever seen, and after he had prepared eggs and bacon and coffee for them both, and after they had smoked two cigarettes together. And then it was Simon who reminded her.
“I want you to help me with a telephone conversation,” he said, and proceeded to coach her carefully. A few minutes later she had dialled a number and was waiting for the reply.
Then:
“Are you Piccadilly
The fact that, having been given no destination to drive to, he was quietly steering his passengers in the direction of the nearest police station, is of no great historical interest. For when he reached the station he was without passengers; and the officials who heard his story were inclined to cast grave doubts upon that worthy citizen’s sobriety, until confirmation of some of his statements arrived through another channel.
Stella Domford and the Saint had quietly left him in a convenient traffic block; for Simon had much more to do in the next twenty-four hours, and he was in no mood to be delayed by embarrassing inquiries.
7
“And if that doesn’t learn you, my girl,” said the Saint, a trifle grimly, “nothing ever will.”
They were in a room in the hotel where the girl had parked her luggage before proceeding to the interview with Einsmann. The Saint, with a cigarette between his lips and a glass tankard of dark syrupy Kulmbach on the table beside him, was sitting on the bed, bandaging his arm with two white linen handkerchiefs torn into strips. Stella Domford stood by shame facedly.
“I’m sorry I was such a fool,” she said.
Simon looked up at her. She was very pale, but this was not the pallor of anger with which she had begun the day.
“Can I help you with that?” she asked.
“It’s nothing,” he said cheerfully. “I’m never hurt. It’s a gift… .”
He secured his effort with a safety pin, and rolled down his sleeve. Then he gave her one of his quick, impulsive smiles.
“Anyway,” he said, “you’ve seen some Life. And that was what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
“You can’t make me feel worse than I do already.”
He laughed and stood up; and she looked round as his hands fell on her shoulders.
“Why worry, old dear?” he said. “It’s turned out all right- so what the hell? You don’t even have to rack your brains to think of an unfutile way of saying ‘Thank you.’ I’ve loved it. The pleasure of shooting Jacob in the tum-tum was worth a dozen of these scratches. So let’s leave it at that.” He ruffled her hair absently. “And now we’ll beat it back to England, shall we?”
He turned away, and picked up his coat.
“Are you leaving now?” she asked in surprise.
Simon nodded.
“I’m afraid we must. In the first place, this evening’s mirth and horseplay is liable to start a certain hue and cry after me in this bouncing burg. I don’t know that that alone would make me jump for the departure platform; but there’s also a man I want to see in England-about a sort of dog. I’m sorry about the rush, but things always seem to happen to me in a hurry. Are you ready?”
They landed for a late meal at Amsterdam; and they had not long left Schiphol behind when the darkness and the monotonous roar of the engine soothed Stella Dornford into a deep sleep of sheer nervous weariness. She awoke when the engine was suddenly silenced, and found that they were gliding down into the pale half-light before dawn.
“I think there’s enough light to make a landing here,” Simon answered her question through the telephones. “I don’t want to have to go on to Croydon.”
There was, at least, enough light for the Saint to make a perfect landing; and he taxied up to the deserted hangars and left the machine there for the mechanics to find in the morning. Then he went in search of his car.
In the car, again, she slept; and it is therefore not surprising that she never thought of Francis Lemuel until after the Saint had unloaded her into one of the friendliest sitting rooms she had ever seen, and after he had prepared eggs and bacon and coffee for them both, and after they had smoked two cigarettes together. And then it was Simon who reminded her.
“I want you to help me with a telephone conversation,” he said, and proceeded to coach her carefully. A few minutes later she had dialled a number and was waiting for the reply.
Then:
“Are you Piccadilly
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