"I might deceive you," he said with disarming candour, "but I won't. I am the Saint." He absorbed the reflex ripples of expression that jerked over the seated men, and smiled again. "Yes--I'm the guy you've been wanting to meet all these years. I am the man with the load of mischief. I," said the Saint, who was partial to the personal pronoun, and apt to become loquacious when he found that it could start a good sentence, "am the Holy Terror, and the only thing for you boys to do is try and look pleased about it."

The Saint vs. Scotland Yard, by Leslie Charteris

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