Emily marched over to the armchair and sat down. She opened her coat and fluffed up her untidy hair.
“Before we get down to business,” she said, ignoring Cora, “I’d like a cup of tea. Can you make tea?” She looked at George.
“Oh yes,” he said blankly, “but don’t you think…?”
“I don’t,” Emily snapped. “Get me a cup of tea, there’s a good fellow.”
George turned and looked helplessly at Poncho, who stared hack at him with menacingly dark eyes.
“Let him make some tea,” Emily said, watching them.
“He’ll run away,” Poncho argued, a little angrily.
“I don’t think he will,” Emily returned, taking out a packet of Woodbines from her hag and lighting one. “If he does, it won’t matter.” Poncho shrugged and stood away from the door. George went out through the lobby into the little kitchen across the way. Not quite knowing what he was doing, he put on the kettle and laid a tray. He was glad to have something to do. Every now and then a tiny spark of horror flared up in his mind, but instantly it sparked out. He knew now that Emily was going to let him go free. By telling him to make the tea, she had shown that she had believed his story and she wasn’t holding him responsible. It was justice. He had no pity for Cora. There would he nothing to worry about, not the way Emily would do it. Although he did not know how she would do it, he was sure that it would he as efficient and undetectable as Sydney’s death.
He made the tea and carried the tray into the sitting-room.
Max had sat down. His bowler hat and umbrella lay at his feet. He was glancing through a notebook, absorbed.