Quentin gave her a lazy grin. “That’s all right,” he said, “you ain’t got anything to worry about. All the same, I’d like to see you out of here. Just to get the records straight, will you tell me your name?”
She reacted immediately to his question by stiffening once more and regarding him suspiciously.
Quentin was in no mood for mysteries. Far more important things were about to happen. He said rather sharply: “Listen; I know what you’re thinking. I’m a newspaper man. The fact that you’re in this hotel, without an escort, in evening dress, in the middle of a coming revolution, is news. So it is, but not now. A nice-looking dame who for some reason or other gets herself mislaid ain’t the kind of news my chief is expecting me to turn in. He wants a full-blooded revolution, so relax. I ain’t printing anything about you, but if you want me to help you you gotta give me your name. What is it?”
She said a little sulkily, “Myra Arnold.”
Quentin nodded. The name meant nothing to him. “O.K., Miss Arnold, if you’ll wait here, I’ll arrange to get a car for you—unless you’d like to come over to my friend’s room and have some breakfast.”
She shook her head. “I’ll wait here,” she said.
Quentin shrugged. “O.K., I won’t keep you long.”
He went back to Morecombre’s room. Anita, the manager and Morecombre were busy with tins when he entered. Morecombre said, “What’s she like?”
Quentin made curves with his hands. “Very nice, but very cold and up-stage,” he said, taking a cup of coffee from Anita. “Listen,” he went on to the manager, “you gotta car? I want to run her over to the consul’s place. I guess that’ll be the best place for her.”
The manager nodded. “I have a car,” he said. “She can go in it by all means, but there is too much fuss; there will be no trouble, you see.”