"Of course not. If you think a bit, you'll see that I never had the chance to."
"Then—"
"Sangore sent it."
Her face was blank almost to incredulity.
"But—"
"I know all the buts, darling. And I don't suppose I shall ever know much more. I can only imagine that when Luker told the others exactly what was meant to happen to us, and even had the nerve to tell Sangore that we were being stored at Bledford Manor — that's where we spent half the night, if you didn't know it — it was a bit too much even for Sangore to swallow. The Old School Tie rose up and pointed accusing fingers at him, if you can follow the metaphor."
The Saint's flippancy was only in his words. His voice was not flippant and his eyes were very clear and unlaughing.
"Anyway, I only know what happened. Sangore rang up Peter at the Raphael that night. It must have been some time after we were taken away from Bledford. He told him what had happened to us, and where we were being taken, and what was going to happen to us, and all about the secret way into the Sons of France's headquarters, through the back of a cheap cafe a couple of blocks away. And he told him all about the plot against Chaulage and the rest of it, and gave him enough dope to make the police sit up and take notice. It was Sangore who told him to go to the prefecture. It was about the one thing that convinced Peter that the whole thing wasn't a trap. Peter was in a pretty tough spot, but he knew that he couldn't hope to take over that headquarters with just Hoppy and Orace to help him, and he figured that if Sangore really wanted him to go to the police there must be something in it. So he took his chance. Fortunately it wasn't too hard to make the prefecture sit up, partly because a few rumours of a coup d'etat had been leaking out and bothering them, and partly because Senappe doesn't like the Sons of France at all and he'd just been praying for a break like that. The only other thing Sangore did was to make Peter swear that he'd report the message as having come from me and leave Sangore himself right out of it. As far as I can make out, the old boy must have shot himself as soon as he rang off. I suppose he knew that he was in for it after that, anyway, and he preferred to go out without any mud on him. That's why none of us ever said anything. But I think you ought to know." He touched the lapel of his coat. "I suppose, in a sort of way, he's the one who really ought to have worn this."
She looked at the narrow red ribbon in his buttonhole, and could not say anything just then.
The Saint gazed at the pale straw-tinted wine in his glass, and lived again through unforgettable hours, not all of them only his own. And he felt a restlessness for which there was no accounting. It was hard to believe that that chapter had been finally closed. So much had been done; but for how long would there be peace?…
"Anyway," he said abruptly, "here's luck."
"I saw in the paper that Colonel Marteau and a lot of others are going to be tried next week," she said at last. "You don't think they'll get off, do you?"
He shook his head.
"They haven't a hope. The French are very practical in these matters. Luckily I didn't quite kill that bloke who was going to do the assassination, and they got a statement out of him before he slid off… It's a pity they couldn't get anything definite on Fairweather, though. I hate to think of him being the only one to get away with it, even if he was the least important of the lot."
"I think you're very vindictive," she said. "There's no harm in Algy, really. I've still got quite a soft spot for him."
"Maybe I'll try to develop some sort of spot for him myself," said the Saint meditatively. "Let's not bother about him now. Tell me more about your marriage."
She frowned.
"What do you want to know about it? You don't object or anything, do you?"
"Not at the moment. I'm only waiting to see my solicitor and find out what chance I'll have of suing you for breach of promise. I've still got the evidence, you know; and I think it must have been Reginald who told the newspapers — anyway, they all printed it, and I shall have a lot of questions to answer if you jilt me."
She looked at him rather sadly.
"I mean, you aren't really entitled to object, are you? It isn't as if you wanted to marry me yourself, or anything like that."
"Of course I want to marry you myself. But since your heart belongs to another I shall be a strong silent man and keep a stiff upper lip and—"
"I wouldn't marry you, anyway," she said. "I admit you did rather steal my girlish heart away at one time, but after that night when everything happened I decided I just couldn't stand the pace. After all, spending one's whole time being lugged about and threatened with floggings and firing squads and being generally manhandled isn't much of a life for a girl, is it? All the same, I hope you'll come and see me after I'm married, whenever you aren't doing anything in particular. I mean, there must be some evenings every now and again when you haven't got a gang of desperadoes after you; and Don will be away quite a good bit, you know."
"I think you ought to make him very happy," Simon remarked, a little sardonically.
She gazed at him, wide eyed and innocent.
"Why, naturally I shall. After all, nobody wants an unhappy man moping about the place. I think I'll have him made a general in a few years."
"Just like that," said the Saint. "And how will you set about it?"
She shrugged.
"It oughtn't to be very difficult. I mean, I know all the right people, and he knows all the right people, and he's rather stupid in the right sort of way, and I'm rather clever, and if a man's stupid in the right sort of way, and his wife's rather clever, and they both know all the right people, it isn't very difficult for him to be made a general."
Simon regarded her with honest admiration.
"You know, I'm beginning to believe you really are clever," he said. "And if he's as stupid as you think he is — in the right sort of way, of course — I'm sure you'll make him very happy."
He ordered another drink and considered her speculatively.
"Have you by any chance started making him happy by allowing him to buy you that nice bit of fur?" he asked.
"Oh no," she said. "I bought this myself with my own hard-earned money."
Simon sat up with impudently interrogative eyebrows.
"What hard-earned money?"
"The money from my memoirs," she said simply. "You see, I thought it would be a good idea to write my memoirs and sell them to one of the Sunday papers. They'd have been awfully thrilling, with all about you and Luker and Algy and everybody and all our adventures, and I thought they'd be a great success. I told Algy about it, and he thought so, too. In fact, he offered to buy them from me himself."
"Oh, did he?" said the Saint. "And how much did he give you for them?"
"He's given me ten thousand so far," she said artlessly,"but I expect he'll give me quite a generous wedding present as well. It's saved me a lot of trouble, too, because he doesn't actually want me to write them just yet, and I must say I wasn't looking forward to that because my spelling is lousy."
For several moments the Saint glared at her speechlessly.
"Damn you, young woman," he exploded. "Do you realize that Algy was my only chance of collecting any boodle out of this party? And after all I've done for you, you have the nerve to step in and knock him off under my nose!"
"I don't know about that," she said diffidently. "After all, I did find him first."
Simon Templar surrendered. He lay back and laughed helplessly.
"You win," he said. "You know, I'm beginning to think that Luker and Marteau and company made a pretty clean getaway after all. If they'd been left at large, they'd probably have found that they'd fallen into the arms of a monster that would have made them suffer a lot more. Algy is the really unlucky guy."