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 skinned 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 only known 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 knights’ 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 afterwards! 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 colour, and his stolid features gradually lost their strained appearance and relaxed into a wry smile. “You certainly did try to save me, Miss Holm,” he admitted. “You see, the Saint—that is, Mr. Templar—he’s always running into trouble, and seeing him like that I couldn’t help thinking of his habits. It didn’t occur to me that you were with him—I was so dense it didn’t strike me that you might have got mussed up at the same time as he did—and, of course, I know all about you, Miss Holm, so——” “Half-time!” begged the Saint dazedly. “We’re getting all tied up. Let’s call it quits.” Carn nodded. “Saint,” he said, “it wasn’t fair. I’m taking this game seriously, and that’s quite bad enough without tangling it any more.” “That’ll be all right,” said the Saint heartily. “And now what about that Baby Polly we were going to split?” Carn busied himself with decanter and glasses, and the Saint offered up a short prayer of thanksgiving. That was a nasty corner taken on two wheels in the devil of a skid, but they were round it somehow with the old bus still right side up, and the road looked pretty clear—at least as far as the next bend. Simon caught the girl’s eye while Carn’s back was turned. She smiled and shrugged her shoulders helplessly. The Saint grinned back and spread out his hands. Then, quite shamelessly, he blew her a kiss. Carn brought the drinks, and the Saint raised his glass.