'Mr Tombs, we owe you a great debt.  If it wasn't for you, little Maisie would be dead and that's for sure!  You're a positive angel.  A saint!  How can we ever thank you?'

The tall man with the deep blue eyes and the devil-may-care grin looked uncharacteristically uncomfortable in the face of this cloying gratitude.  'It's nothing,' he replied awkwardly.  'I just happened to overhear the kidnappers talking, and the rest was easy.'

He forbore to mention that he made a game of pretending to not understand a word of English, so that the two kidnappers felt free to converse in guarded words their plans, right in front of the foreigner on the next bar stool.  He had then tailed them to their hideout and risked his life to save the little girl being held for ransom in the abandoned farmhouse. 

The leader of the gang had fired his automatic at him as he slipped into the dark woods, burdened by the weight of the child.  'Be very quiet,' he whispered to her as he circled around to where he had left his car.  He could hear the sounds of the pursuit as the gang blundered through the undergrowth, torch lights flashing as if to herald their proximity.

'Are you taking me away from the bad men?' asked the child, who appeared to be about 5 years old from what he had seen in the dimly lit cellar from which he had carried her.  Her tousled blond curls hung around a dirty face, tear streaked and fearful still.

'Yes I am,' he said.  'And when we get into my car you must tell me where you live so that I can get you back to your Mum and Dad.  Won't that be nice?  So keep quiet as a mouse for a little longer.'

'What's your name?  Mine's Maisie.'

'Sebastian,' he whispered, giving her his favourite alias.  'Now shush!'

'Sebastian, what a funny name.  Do they call you anything for short?  Sometimes my Dad calls me Maise.'

Despite her talkative nature, they finally made it to the safety of his car, and they sped away in the direction of London, safe in the knowledge that the gang's beat-up old van could never overtake his Lotus.

Now, in the presence of her parents who were as garrulous as their daughter in their effusive praise, he was anxious only to get away and resume his normal savoir faire.

Finally escaping, once more to the safety of his car, his thoughts began to dwell on the shapely brunette, the Honourable Frederica Pemberton-Smythe, commonly known as Freddie, who was happily in temporary residence in his Mayfair flat.  She was not much of a conversationalist, her life mostly revolving around horses and gambling, but her talents lay elsewhere.  He decided that he had better buy a dozen or so oysters to keep himself in trim for this particular sport of kings!

As he let himself into his flat, he heard her voice call from within.  'Is that you, darling?'

'No, it's your friendly neighbourhood rapist!'

'I've put some champagne on ice.'

'What about something to eat?  I've had a busy evening.'

'Caviar and crackers OK?  Why, what have you been up to?'

In his now restored smooth charismatic nature, he gave Freddie a lavishly embellished tongue-in-cheek account of his adventure, adding 20 years and a great deal of sex appeal to Maisie.

As they cleared away the plates and glasses, she asked him, 'What do you want to do now?'

Leaning close to her, his piratical grin well in evidence, he whispered wickedly into her ear.

'You're insatiable!  Simon Templar, you're a right randy old devil, aren't you?'