Miss Lovedew goggled at him.
"Do you mean to say that there's a man in that trunk?" she demanded hideously.
"Madam," said the Saint, "there is. Would you like him? Mr. Teal has the first claim, but I'm open to competitive offers. The specimen is in full running order, suffering at the moment from a black eye and an aching jaw, but otherwise complete and ready for the road. He is highly-strung and sensitive, but extremely virile. Fed on a diet of rye whisky and caviare——"
Teal bent over the trunk and examined the labels. The name on them was his own. He straightened up and levelled his gaze inflexibly upon the Saint.
"I'll talk to you alone for a moment," he said.
"Pleasure," said the Saint briefly.
The detective looked round.
"That trunk is not to be touched without my permission," he said.
He walked over to the rail, and Simon Templar strolled along by his side. They passed out of earshot of the crowd, and stopped. For a few seconds they eyed each other steadily.
"Is that Perrigo you've got in that trunk?" Teal asked presently.
"None other."
"We've had a full confession from Elberman. Do you know what the penalty is for being in possession of illicit diamonds?"
"I know what the penalty is for being caught in possession of illicit diamonds," said the Saint circumspectly.
"Do you know where those diamonds are now?"
Simon nodded.
"They are sewn into the seat of Perrigo's pants," he said.
"Is that what you wanted Perrigo for?"
The Saint leaned on the rail.
"You know, Claud," he remarked, "you're the damnedest fool."
Teal's eyes hardened.
"Why?"
"Because you're playing the damnedest fool game with me. Have you ever known me be an accessory to wanton murder?"
"I've known you to be mixed up in some darned funny things."
"You've never known me to be mixed up in anything as darned funny as that. But you work yourself up to the point where you're ready to believe anything you want to believe. It's the racket. It's dog eating dog. I beat you to something, and you get mad. When you get mad, I have to bait you. The more I bait you, the madder you get. And the madder you get, the more I have to bait you. We get so's nothing's too bad for us to do to each other." The Saint smiled. "Well, Claud, I'm taking a little holiday, and before I go I'm giving you a break."
Teal shrugged mountainously, but for a moment he said nothing. And the Saint balanced his cigarette on his thumbnail and flipped it far and wide.
"Let me do some thinking for you," he said. "I'm great on doing other people's thinking for them these days. . . . Overnight you thought over what I said to you last evening. This morning you verified that I hadn't been bluffing. And you knew there was only one thing for you to do. Your conscience wouldn't let you lie down under what I'd done. You'd got to take what was coming to you—arrest me, and face the music. You'd got to play square with yourself, even if it broke you. I know just how you felt. I admire you for it. But I'm not going to let you do it."
"No?"
"Not in these trousers," said the Saint. "Why should you? You've got Perrigo, and I'm ready for a short rest. And here's your surprise packet. Get busy on what it tells you, and you may be a superintendent before the end of the season."
Teal glanced at the book which the Saint had thrust into his hands, and turned it over thoughtfully.
Then he looked again at the Saint. His face was still as impassive as the face of a graven image, but a little of the chilled steel had gone out of his eyes. And, as he looked, he saw that the Saint was laughing again—the old, unchangeable, soundless, impudent Saintly laughter. And the blue imps in the Saint's eyes danced.
"I play the game by my own rules, Claud," said the Saint. "Don't you forget it. That profound philosophy covers the craziest things I do. It also makes me the only man in this bleary age who enjoys every minute of his life. And"—for the last time in that story, the Saintly forefinger drove gaily and debonairly to its mark—"if you take a leaf out of my book, Claud, one day, Claud, you will have fun and games for ever." And then the Saint was gone.
He departed in the Saintly way, with a last Saintly smile and the clap of a hand on the detective's shoulder; and Teal watched him go without a word.
Patricia was waiting for him farther along the deck. He fell into step beside her, and they went down the gangway and crossed the quay. At the corner of a warehouse Simon stopped. Quite quietly he looked at her, propping up the building with one hand.
And the girl knew what his silence meant. For him, the die was cast; and, being the man he was, he was ready to pay cash. His hand was in his pocket, and the smile hadn't wavered on his lips. But just for that moment he was taking his unflinching farewell of the fair fields of irresponsible adventure, understanding just what it would mean to him to pay the score, scanning the road ahead with the steady eyes that had never feared anything in this life. And he was ready to start the journey there and then.
And Patricia smiled. She had never loved him more than she did at that moment; but she smiled with nothing but the smile behind her eyes. And she answered before he had spoken.
"Boy," she said, "I couldn't be happier than I am now."
He did not move. She went on, quickly:
"Don't say it, Simon! I don't want you to. Haven't we both got everything we want as it is? Isn't life splendid enough? Aren't we going to have more adventures, and—and—"
"Fun and games for ever?"
"Yes! Aren't we? Why spoil the magic? I won't listen to you. Even if we've missed out on this adventure—"
Suddenly he laughed. His hands went to his hips. She had been waiting for that laugh. She had put all she was into the task of winning it. And, with that laugh, the spell that had held his eyes so quiet and steady was broken. She saw the leap of the old mirth and glamour lighting them again. She was happy.
"Pat, is that really what you want?"
"It's everything I want."
"To go on with the fighting and the fun? To go on racketing around the world, doing everything that's utterly and gloriously mad—swaggering, swashbuckling, singing—showing all these dreary old-dogs what can be done with life—not giving a damn for anyone—robbing the rich, helping the poor —plaguing the pompous—killing dragons, pulling policemen's legs——"
"I'm ready for it all!"
He caught her hands.
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
"Not one tiny little doubt about it?"
"Not one."
"Then we can start this minute."
She stared.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
The Saint loosened his belt and pointed downwards. Even then, she didn't understand.
"Remember how I found Bertie? He was halfway into the Lovedew's wardrobe trunk. We had a short but merry scrap. And then he went on in. Well, during the tumult and the shouting, and the general excitement, in the course of which Bertie soaked up one of the juiciest K.O.s I've ever distributed—"
He broke off and the girl turned round in amazed perplexity.
From somewhere on the Berengaria had pealed out the wild and frantic shriek of an irreparably outraged camel collapsing under the last intolerable straw.
Patricia turned again, her face blank with bewilderment.
"What on earth was that?" she asked.
The Saint smiled seraphically.
"That was the death-cry of old Pimply-face. They've just opened her trunk and discovered Bertie. And he has no trousers on. We can begin our travels right now," said the Saint.