Fuentes looked at him. “If you touch her during that hour I will personally attend to your punishment. See that she is clean and wearing clean clothes when you bring her. Now, send the Lieutenant to me.”
He turned and walked back to his room with quick, impatient steps.
4
The small ornate clock on the mantelpiece struck nine o’clock sharply. Faint sounds of distant shouting and an occasional shot drifted in through the open windows. Morecombre sat on the floor, his back to the room, looking into the darkness. He had not moved for half an hour.
Quentin, in shirt-sleeves and his collar open, paced the room with long strides. Cigarette-butts piled in the fireplace. Every now and then he glanced across at Myra, who lay asleep on the divan. He thought she looked very tired, drawn and defenceless, now that her features were relaxed. He crossed over to Morecombre and stood behind him, looking out into the night.
“We’re in a jam, Bill,” he said, very softly; “we’ve got to do something before the night’s out.” He looked over his shoulder at the sleeping girl. “She was lucky to get away with it this time, but tomorrow will be a different story. We ought to try to get her out of this.”
Morecombre grunted. “You mean shooting our way through hordes of soldiers like they do on the movies?”
“Along those lines.”
“We two mugs protecting her from a hail of lead with our big, sunburnt bodies—huh?”
“Something like that.”