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gifts, and Simon agreed it would have been ungracious to hide them.
    The girl raised her glass.
    “Cheers, I’m Samantha Lord.”
    Simon returned the gesture.
    “Sebastian Tombs.”
    He rested on the arm of a chair and Samantha sat opposite him, one seemingly endless leg crossed over the other. She took a slim platinum case from her bag and proffered a cigaret. He shook his head.
    “No longer one of my vices.”
    “Well, perhaps it leaves you more energy for your remaining ones.” Samantha selected a cigaret, lit it, and watched the exhaled smoke rise towards the ceiling until it finally disappeared.
    Her gaze travelled slowly round the room.
    “You must have had an untidy upbringing.”
    “I mislaid a cufflink.”
    Samantha leaned forward and removed his glasses. “Maybe you’d have a better chance of finding it without those.”
    He decided for the moment not to confirm or deny her apparent diagnosis of his natural vision.
    “Where did you spring from anyway?”
    “I have a suite on this floor. I’d just come in to get something, and when I passed your room the door was open and I saw you. I never could resist a gentleman in distress.”
    Samantha had stood up as she talked, and the Saint also rose, taking her empty champagne glass and placing it alongside his own on the table.
    “What makes you think I’m a gentleman?”
    His hands rested on her shoulders, and her mouth opened as he moved closer. Their eyes held each other’s as their lips met.
    The crash of the door being slammed shattered the spell. Emma Maclett walked purposefully into the room, ignored Samantha, and spoke directly to the Saint.
    “Hi! I’m from the Herald Tribune.”
    Samantha’s voice was as sweet as vinegar.
    “Cancel my subscription.”
    The Saint stepped out of the line of Ire, assuming the professional indifference of a tennis umpire.
    Emma’s green eyes flashed.
    “I do hope I’m breaking something up.”
    Samantha looked at the Saint inquiringly.
    “Sweet thing. Your aunt?”
    “I’m just a local science correspondent.”
    Samantha shrugged.
    “Well, I wouldn’t want to stand here in the way of a Nobel Prize.”
    The Saint, fearing a full-scale battle, stepped between them.
    “Sam, I really don’t know how to thank you.”
    Emma’s eyes flashed.
    “I thought you were doing that when I walked in.”
    Samantha spared her a long, withering look.
    “Bitterness is a terrible thing, dear,” she cautioned, and turned back to the Saint. “I’m very easy to thank. Just take me to dinner tonight.”
    “I’d love to. Where can I find you?”
    “The lobby, eight sharp.”
    “Till tonight then.”
    Samantha turned as she reached the door, and winked at the Saint.
    “Help yourselves to the champagne, it can brighten up the dullest occasion.”
    After the door closed, Emma still could not hide her jealousy.
    “Who was she-your leg man?”
    “I found some eager character ransacking my room. I was about to ask Mm some questions when I was knocked out. She revived me.”
    “That part I saw. And while you were out, my father also went out.”
    “Where? With whom?”
    To see someone called Curdon. He wouldn’t tell me any more.”
    The Saint relaxed.
    “It’s all right. Curdon is a section head with D16. He’s here to look out for your father too.”
    “D16! But why didn’t he tell me he already had protection?”
    “I don’t know, just as I don’t know why our recently departed vision of loveliness should knock me out and then revive me.”
    “She knocked you out!”
    “I didn’t actually see who it was, but she said she was passing and just happened to glance in, not very easy considering the door was shut. Also she has hard hands, the kind of hardness that comes from practising karate by demolishing the odd housebrick, and the blow that laid me out was as expertly delivered a karate chop as it has ever been my misfortune to receive.”
    “But you’re still going to meet her tonight.”
    “Of course. How