The logic of the Saint's argument was irrefutable, but there was in Chief Inspector Teal an ineradicable scepticism, founded on years of bitter disappointment, that fought obstinately against the premises from which that logic took its flying start. The Saint might for once be telling the truth, but there had been many other occasions when he had been no less plausible when he was lying. All of Mr teal's prejudices fought back from the dead end to which credulity inevitably led.
Chief Inspector Teal suddenly opened his baby-blue eyes and they were not bored or comatose or stupid, but unexpectedly clear and penetrating in the round placidity of his face.
...
She turned languidly and inspected him, one finely arched eyebrow slightly raised. She had lovely eyes, large and dark and sparkling, shaded by very long lashes. Her dark hair gleamed with a warm autumn richness. The poise of her exquisitely modelled head, the angle of her childishly tip-tilted nose, the curl of her pretty lips, proclaimed her utter and profound disinterest in Simon Templar.
"May I compliment you on your taste in clothes. I always did like that dress."
Lady Valerie stared at him hard for a moment and then her expression changed completely. It ceased altogether to be cold and disdainful: her features became animated with eagerness.
She seemed to be expecting sympathy.
Simon laughed.
"It must have been rather trying," he admitted. "I haven't seen my rival today. By the way, where is he?"
"It doesn't matter. It's nice to see <i>you</i> again."
She might almost have meant it.
"Next time you want rescuing, you must drop me a line," said the Saint. "I'm told I have a very delicate touch with damsels in distress. Maybe I could give you more satisfaction."
She glanced sideways at him, out of the corners of her eyes. her lips twitched slightly.
"Maybe you could," she said.
"All the same," Simon continued resolutely, "it would have been even more trying if you'd been left in your room, wouldn't it?"
...
Simon looked at Lady Valerie.
The fire that had gone into his appeal was a glowing ingot within him. It was a coiled spring that would drive him until it ran down, without regard for sentiment or obstacles. It was a power transformer for the ethereal vibrations of destiny. Earlier in the evening, the atmosphere of the Berkeley had defeated him; but this was not the Berkeley. He knew that there was only one solution, and there was too much at stake for him to hesitate. He was amazed at his own madness; and yet he was utterly calm, utterly resolute.
He nodded.
...
