She beat her fists together. “Poor old George: as if we didn’t know. It was easy, George: easy as falling off a log. As soon as you started bragging, Sydney saw how he could use you. Pretend you love him, he said to me, and he’s ours.”
George couldn’t look at her. He wanted to hate her, but shame and desire seemed to be his only emotions.
She was listening again. Her eyes darted like those of a frightened animal.
The stairs creaked outside as someone moved cautiously up them.
“It’s Poncho,” she whispered, bending forward. “He’s got in from the hack.”
George started up. The heavy Luger humped against his hip. He had forgotten the gun. Instantly he had it in his hand, and he thumbed back the safety catch.
“I’ll kill him if he tries to get in here,” he muttered.
“They’ll be sure of you if they know you have a gun,” she said, watching him intently. “They’ll know for certain you killed—”
“Shut up!” he said. “I don’t care. They know enough as it is.” He faced the door, waiting.
There was a long pause, then they heard the handle of the door turn. The door opened an inch or so and then stopped, blocked by the cupboard.