“If you don’t get out,” the woman screamed at them, “I’ll call the cops!” She slid out of bed, a mass of jiggling flesh, snatched up her dressing gown and wrapped it round her. “Don’t stand there like a wet week,” she went on to Robinson. “Get ’em out of here.”
Robinson tried to pull himself together. “You’ll pay for this, you two,” he said, working himself into a rage. “I’ve a mind to sack you on the spot. You must he drunk. Get Out, and I’ll see you in the morning.”
George, wishing the ground would open and swallow him, groped for the door handle, but Brant’s voice froze him.
“Talk to him, George. Tell him what we’ve come for.”
Robinson turned to George. He felt that he could cope with him “So you started this, did you?” he snarled. “I’m surprised at you! You’ll be sorry for this, you see if you aren’t. You wait until tomorrow.”
George opened and shut his mouth, but no sound came.
The woman, afraid of Brant, swung round on George. “If you don’t get out, you big, hulking rat, I’ll scratch your eyes out!” she shouted at him
“Tell this tart to lay off,” Brant said in a soft, menacing voice to Robinson, “or you’ll both he sorry.”
The woman swung round on him with a squeal of rage- then she stepped hack, her furious, blood-congested face paling. Robinson also took a step hack, catching his breath with a sharp, whistling sound.
Brant was holding an odd-looking weapon in his hand. The harsh light of the unshaded overhead lamp made the blade glitter. The sight turned George’s stomach.