“I’m looking for a couple of friends,” George explained. “It’s important I should find them.” He smiled again. “You see, I owe them money.”
Mr Hibbert scratched his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “Perhaps you’ll tell me how I can help…”
“Oh yes,” George said eagerly, taking out a crushed packet of Players. “Will you smoke?”
Mr Hibbert took a cigarette rather doubtfully. “I don’t usually smoke in office hours,” he explained. “But seeing it’s Saturday…” He had a trick of not finishing his sentences.
They lit up.
“You see,” George went on, “they were looking for a place. I’ve been away for some time As a matter of fact, I’ve been in the States. I traced them to a flat near Russell Square, and now I learn they’ve moved to Maida Vale. I think they came to you for a place.”
“The States?” Mr Hibbert’s eyes grew dreamy. “Often thought I’d go there myself. Wonderful place, I believe.”
George nodded. “It’s all right,” he said with assumed indifference. “But I suppose I’ve seen too much of it. Give me England any day.” He dropped ash carefully into the tobacco tin lid that served as an ashtray. “These two,” he went on, anxious not to stray from his purpose. “They were young—brother and sister. Brant is the name. The fellow had a bad scar: a bum.”
Mr Hibbert’s face darkened. “Oh yes,” he said, frowning. “I remember them. Hmm, yes, I remember them quite well.” He conveyed that he did not approve of them, and that because George knew them, he wasn’t sure whether he should approve of him
“It’s just that I owe them money,” George said apologetically. “They did me a good turn once.” What was he saying? A good turn? But he went on, “They’re not friends of mine, you understand; but one must honour one’s debts.”