“Where’s Cora?” George asked, drying his face on a grimy towel.
“Asleep,” Sydney said indifferently. “She’s got weals on her hack as thick as my finger.”
George flinched. His anger blazed up.
“Let’s go,” he said.
It was only seven-thirty by the time they reached George’s place, off the Edgware Road. The house was silent: no one was up. George took Sydney to his room and closed the door. While Sydney sat on the bed, whistling softly, George changed his shirt, put on another suit and had a hurried shave.
In the familiar surroundings of his room his anger died down. He was now beginning to realize what it meant to live dangerously. He had read so much about it in the past; had constructed scenes in which he had experienced breathless adventures, fought and killed men, and had gloried in it all. But this was different. This was something out of his control. He knew that if in one of his fantasies he were trapped by desperate men, he would not be killed. He would be able to create a situation that would save him at the last moment. But this business was different. If that Greek, Nick, had wanted to kill him, he could have done so. It was just sheer luck that he hadn’t cut George’s throat.
George suddenly hated the thought of what was going to happen that night. He had been angry, but now, back in his room, the thought of fresh danger gave him a sick, nervous feeling in his stomach. To beat this man Crispin was primitive justice, but it was hound to lead to trouble. If they did succeed in catching Crispin alone, did Sydney really think that Crispin wouldn’t get his own back on them later?
As he rinsed his razor, he considered whether he should refuse to go with them, but immediately saw the impossibility of this If he wished to keep Cora’s regard—and there was no question about that—he would have to go through with it. All he had to do was to threaten Crispin with the gun. Well, that was all right. He could do that. There would be no danger in that, as the gun wasn’t loaded. He was confident that Crispin would obey him if he had the gun in his hand. It was an ugly-looking weapon. It would scare him stiff. Besides, Sydney would be there.
“Getting cold feet?” Sydney asked in a sneering voice.
George started. He had forgotten that Sydney was in the room. He had been so busy with his thoughts that Sydney had gone completely out of his mind. He turned.