She stood up and came towards the fireplace.
"What was it?"
"That you were a girl I was going to kiss before I died. And I did it halfway through the story, which spoils the ending; but even now—"
And suddenly, with his quick light laugh, he swept her into his arms and captured her red lips.
In a little while she said: "Are you sure you haven't made a mistake?"
"No," said the Saint, "I've made a friend."
His arm lay lightly round her shoulders.
"I'm the fool who never grows old," he said. "But the manner of folly changes. Yesterday it was battle, murder, and sudden death; tomorrow — who knows? But while there's a boy you love waiting for you, and a song and a story for me — who cares?…"
One moment he held her eyes, and then he swung round and picked up a newspaper that lay on a side table.
One swift glance down the page, and he was looking at the clock.
"The Aquitania sails in seven hours," he said. "I can get you to Southampton with hours to spare; and then I can work a pull with the company. I'll guarantee you a berth—"
He read his answer in her face, and flung open the door.
"Orace!" he shouted, and his man came running. "Some sandwiches — a flask — coffee in the thermos. At the double! Is the Hirondel full up?"
"Yessir."
"Good enough."
He went through into the garage, and in another moment the mighty car was roaring round to. pull up snorting at the front door… And the Saint returned, as Mr. Teal, roused by the commotion, emerged from the back of the hall.
"Going away?" asked Teal.
"Just for a drive… Jill, you'd better have a leather coat — take this one… That's the idea… I'll take those things, Orace."
He saw the girl into the car, and came back to fetch another coat from the stand. Teal buttonholed him.
"Is this an elopement, Saint?"
"Now that's just what it isn't, Claud….. No, the Old Pentonvillains choker, Orace… Anything I can do for you on the way, Claud Eustace?"
"If it is an elopement," said Teal lusciously, "you fixed it up quick enough."
Simon twisted the scarf round his neck and canted his most piratical hat at its most piratical angle over his right eye. And then he tapped the detective gently on the shoulder.
"Has it never occurred to you," he said, "that one day a story might be written in which the heroine didn't fall in love with the hero, and the hero didn't fall in love with the heroine — and they were both perfectly happy in spite of that? Because this is that story. I am the most superlative story-book hero that ever lived, but the rules were not made for me."
And he took down Teal's bowler from the rack, and clapped it rakishly on the detective's head, and pulled Teal's ear, and punched him in, the stomach, and was gone; and an echo of Saintly laughter seemed still to hang in the little hall long after the clamour of the Hirondel had died away.
The end