It was after nine o’clock when he entered the little flat. Cora was in the bathroom. She shouted through the door that she wouldn’t be long, and he wandered into the sitting-room.
He put the Luger on the mantelpiece, and after looking round the room, he decided that he might as well tidy up a bit. The decision gave him some pleasure. He had nothing to do, and he liked messing in a house.
He went hack to the bathroom and told Cora through the panels of the door what he intended to do.
“Come in,” she shouted. “I can’t hear you.”
He opened the door and looked into the tiny, steam-filled room. Cora was lying in the bath; only the back of her head and white shoulders were visible from where he stood. She glanced over her shoulder. A damp cigarette hung from her mouth.
“What is it?” she asked, a little sharply.
“How—how are you, Cora?”
“I’m all right,” she returned. “God! You look a sight.”
George grinned happily. “I know,” he said. “It’s my hand that’s had. These are only scratches.”
“You’ve got guts,” she said. “I didn’t think you had it in you. “