She was wearing one of the Saint's multifarious dressing gowns—a jade-green one—with the sleeves turned up and the skirt of the gown trailing the floor; but Roger wondered if any woman could have looked more superbly robed. In the circumstances, she could have used no artificial aids to beauty, yet she had lost none of her fresh loveliness. And if Roger's enslavement had not already been complete, it would have been completed by the smile with which she rewarded his efforts in the kitchen.
"Bacon and eggs!" she said. "My favourite breakfast!"
"They're my favourite, too," said Roger; and thus a friendship was sealed.
But it was not without a certain rueful humility that he noticed that she seemed to be looking for someone else. He supplied the information unasked.
"The Saint went off to get you some clothes himself. He shouldn't be long now."
" 'Saint.'. .. Hasn't he any other name?"
"Most people call him the Saint," said Roger.. "His real name is Simon Templar."
" 'Simon'?" She made enchantment of the name, so that Roger wished she would change the subject. And, in a way, she did. She said: "I remembered a lot more after I left you last night. There were three of you who escaped, weren't there? There was a girl—"
"Patricia Holm?"
"That's right."
Roger nodded, impaling another rasher of bacon.
"She isn't here," he said. "As a matter of fact, she's somewhere in the Mediterranean. The Saint wouldn't let her come back with us. She's been with him in most things, but he put his foot down when it came to running the risk of a long term in prison—if not worse. He roped in an old friend who has a private yacht, and sent her off on a long cruise. And just we two came back."
"Had she been with him a long time?"
"About three years. He picked her up in another adventure, and they've stuck together ever since."
"Were they—married?"
"No."
Even then, when Roger was reflecting miserably within him upon the ease with which conquests came to some men who didn't deserve them, he couldn't be guilty of even an implied disloyalty to his leader.
He added, with simple sincerity: "You see, the question never really arose. We're outlaws. We've put ourselves outside the pale—and ordinary standards don't apply. One day, perhaps—"
"You'll win back your place inside the pale?"
"If we could, everything would be different."
"Would you like to go back?"
"For myself? I don't know."
She smiled.
"Somehow," she said, "I can't picture your friend handing round cakes at tea parties, and giving his duty dances to gushing hostesses."
"The Saint?" Roger laughed. "He'd probably start throwing knives at the orchestra, just to wake things up.... And here he is."
A car hummed down the mews and stopped outside. A moment later a bent old man, with gray beard, smoked glasses, and shabby hat, entered the sitting room. He leaned on a stick, with an untidy brown-paper parcel in his other hand.
"Such a lovely morning," he wheezed, in a quavering voice. "And two such lovely young people having breakfast together. Well, well, well!" He straightened up. "Roger, have you left anything for me, you four-flushing son of a walleyed horse thief?"
He heaved parcel and stick into a corner—sent beard, glasses, and hat to join them—and smoothed his coat. By some magic he shed all the illusion of shabbiness from his clothes without further movement; and it was the Saint himself who stood there, adjusting his tie with the aid of the mirror over the mantelpiece—trim, immaculate, debonair.
"Getting younger and more beautiful every day," he murmured complacently; then he turned with a laugh. "Forgive the amateur theatricals, Sonia. I had an idea there might be several policemen out looking for me this morning—and I was right. I recognized three in Piccadilly alone, and I stopped to ask one of them the time. Anyway, I raised you an outfit. You needn't be shy about wearing it, because it belongs to a lady who married a real live lord—though I did my best to save him."
He sank into a chair with a sigh, and surveyed the plate which Roger set before him.
"What—only one egg? Have the hens gone on strike, or something?"
"If you want another," said Roger offensively, "you'll have to lay it yourself. There were only four in the house and our guest had two."
Simon turned to the girl with a smile.
"Well," he said, "it's something to hear you were fit enough to cope with them."
"I feel perfectly all right this morning," she said. "It must have been that drink you gave me last night."
"Wonderful stuff," said the Saint. "I'll give you the prescription before you go, so that you can have some ready for the next time you're doped. It's also an infallible preventive of the morning after—if that's any use to you."
He picked up his knife and fork.
"Did I hear you say you saw some detectives?" asked Roger.
"I saw several. All in very plain clothes, and all flat-footed. A most distressing sight for an old man on his way home from church. And they weren't just out for constitutionals—sniffing the balmy breezes and thinking about their dinners. They weren't keeping holy the Sabbath Day. They were doing all manner of work. Rarely have I run such a gauntlet of frosty stares. It was quite upsetting." The Saint grinned gently. "But what it most certainly means is that the cat has leaped from the portmanteau with some agility. Enough beans have been spilt to keep Heinz busy for a year. The gaff has been blown from here to Honolulu. You know, I had an idea Heinrich would rise to the occasion."
2
IT WAS THE GIRL who spoke first.
"The police are after you?"
"They've been after me for years," said the Saint cheerfully, "in a general sort of way. But just recently the hunt's been getting a bit fierce. Yes, I think I can claim that this morning I'm at the height of my unpopularity, so far as Scotland Yard's concerned."
"After all," said Roger, "you can't go round kidnapping Steel Princesses without something happening."
Simon helped himself to marmalade.
"True, O King," he murmured. "Though that's hardly likely to be the charge. If Heinrich had sung a song about a stolen Steel Princess they'd have wanted to know what she was doing in his house. . . . Curse Sunday! On any other day I could have bought an evening paper and found out exactly what psalm he warbled. As it is, I shall have to go round and inquire in person."
"You'll have to what?" spluttered Roger.
"Make personal inquiries," said the Saint. "Disguised as a gentleman, I shall interview Prince Rudolf at the Ritz Hotel, and hear all the news."
He pushed back his chair and reached for the cigarette box.
"It may not have occurred to your mildewed intellect," he remarked pleasantly, "that the problems of international intrigue can usually be reduced to quite simple terms. Let's reduce Rudolf. A, wishing to look important, desires to smite B on the nose. But B, unfortunately, is a bigger man than A. C comes along and offers A a gun, wherewith B can be potted from a safe distance. But we destroyed that gun. C then suggests a means of wangling an alliance between A and D, whereby the disgusting superiority of B may be overcome. C, of course, is sitting on the fence, waiting to take them into his very expensive nursing-home when they've all half killed each other. Is that clear?"
"Like mud," said Roger.
"Well," said the Saint, unmoved, "if you wanted to find out exactly how the alliance was to be wangled, mightn't it be helpful to ask A?"
"And, naturally, he'd tell you at once."
Simon shook his head sadly.
"There are subtleties in this game," he said, "which are lost upon you, Roger. But they may be explained to you later. Meanwhile..."
The Saint leaned back, with a glance at his watch, and looked across the table at the girl. The bantering manner which he wore with such an ease slipped from his shoulders like a cloak; and he studied her face soberly, reading what he could in the deep brown eyes. She had been watching him ever since he came into the room; and he knew that the fate of his plan was already sealed—one way or the other.