“I’m looking for you,” he said. “I thought you’d be here.”
“Well, you only just caught me,” George said lamely. “I—I was just going to bed.”
Brant eyed him contemptuously. Then he looked at Gladys and snapped his fingers impatiently.
“A lemonade,” he said, and then turned hack to George. “What was your racket?” he asked.
George blinked. “Racket? What racket?”
“You said you worked with Frank Kelly. What did you do?”
George’s brain crawled with alarm. This would never do, he told himself, flustered. He wasn’t going to admit anything to Brant. It was all very well to tell Ella tall stories, but Brant was quite a different kettle of fish.
“That’s my business,” he said, looking away. “I don’t talk about it.”
“Don’t be wet,” Brant said. “I’m in the game myself.”
George was startled: he turned and stared into Brant’s hard, grey-blue eyes. He flinched away from what he saw in them.