Quentin jerked his head at Anita. “Go and tell her,” he said, “this is no place for American women.”
Anita scowled at him. “It is all right for me… yes?” she said. “It doesn’t matter about me … no?”
Quentin climbed out of his chair. “Go and tell her,” he said. “Never mind about yourself. You’ll be all right.”
She went out, closing the door sharply behind her. Quentin glanced at Morecombre, who was setting the table. “Rather complicated if we’ve got to look after some American girl, huh?” he said. “If things do start happening, I want to be free to move from here quickly.”
Morecombre grinned. “No woman has ever complicated my life,” he said. “If she’s a looker, you don’t have to worry. I’ll look after her.”
The manager wrung his hands. “This is a terrible thing that you do, senor,” he said, “turning my guests from my hotel.”
Quentin poured out some coffee. “Don’t talk a lotta bull,” he said. “You know as well as I do that all your guests have gone. If anything happens to this girl, I’m going to report the matter to the consul.”
The manager looked at him sulkily, and helped himself to a cup of coffee. “Nothing will happen,” he said; “I assure you that nothing will happen.”
Just then Anita came back. Her black eyes sparkled with satisfaction. “The senorita says she stays,” she said. “She has no place else to go, so she stays.”
Quentin groaned. “As if I haven’t got enough to worry about,” he said. “You gotta go and see her,” he went on, turning to the manager, “tell her that there is likely to be a disturbance in the town and she had better go.”