Saint Errant Read Online Free PDF Page A

course I’m prejudiced.”
    “I was just telling Mark the other day that the only person in the whole world whose autograph I’d really like to have was the Saint,” Iris Freeman said.
    “Isn’t that sort of turning the tables on your public, Miss Freeman?” murmured Patricia sweetly.
    The actress laughed gaily, with every note beautifully modulated for imaginary microphones.
    “Hardly a habit of mine. But we all have our weaknesses, don’t we? And the Saint’s also one of mine, darling … Mark, do you have a piece of paper?”
    Belden fumbled in his pockets and produced a folded sheet.
    “Here you are.”
    “I suppose if I had more practice I could take these situations in my stride,” said the Saint.
    “You’ll do all right,” said Patricia. “Sign the paper and satisfy your adoring public.”
    Simon took out a pen and scribbled his name.
    “And you must draw the Saint figure,” Iris Freeman insisted. “It wouldn’t be complete without that.”
    The Saint patiently sketched his trademark-the straight-line skeleton figure crowned with the conventional halo which had once been enough to give the most hardened citizens an uneasy qualm at the pit of their stomachs-and reflected that a lot of things had changed. Or had they?
    “That’s simply wonderful,” Iris Freeman gushed. “You’ll never believe what a thrill this is for me. I only wish I could stay and talk to you for hours, but Mark and I have to run. How would you like to come to our rehearsal tomorrow?”
    “He’d love to,” Patricia said firmly. “But I’m afraid he has another engagement.”
    “Oh … I see.” The actress bit her Up. “Well, I’ll be sure and send you some tickets for the opening, Saint And you must come to the party afterwards. I’ll manage to get you off to my self somehow…. Come along, Mark.”
    “Yes, dear.” Belden gave Simon one of those unnecessarily hearty handshakes. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Templar. And you, Miss Holm. So long, Stratford. Don’t let it get you down.”
    They made an exit which should have had an orchestral back ground; and Stratford Keane stared after them rudely.
    “The only party after the opening,” he said, “should be a wake, with those two as the guests of honor.”
    “I don’t think Simon agrees with you,” Patricia said. “He’s discovered that there are things in Iris’s favor which you never mentioned in your description.”
    Simon reached for her glass and finished her drink for her.
    “You’re very unfair to the wench,” he said. “If it’s a crime to be fascinated by me, what are you doing here?”
    He produced folding money and handed it to a hopeful waiter.
    “Buy Mr Keane another drink,” he said. “And a taxi after wards, if he needs it.” He stood up. “I’m sorry we have to rush off, but I have to buy Pat some dinner. She doesn’t talk back so much with her mouth full.”
    Mr Keane nodded broodingly.
    “Good night,” he said. “I shall see thee-at Philippi.”
    They made their escape, Simon hoped, before Mr Keane was reminded that the Pump Room was also in the business of serving food.
    The encounter was typical of many similar incidents in the Saint’s life-coincidental, casual, and apparently pointless, and yet destined to lead into unsuspected complications. Adventure, for him, moved in a mysterious way. Nothing ever seemed to happen to him that was completely unimportant, or that led nowhere. He had come to accept it as part of an inscrutable fate, like the people who are known to insurance companies as “accident prone”: regardless of whether he took the initiative or not, something was always happening to him. He seldom thought about it much any more, except that it may have sub consciously contributed to a pleasantly persistent euphoria, an almost imperceptible but continuous excitement which made the colors of his world just a little brighter than anyone else’s.
    For several hours he certainly didn’t think