* * *
Myra sat before the dressing-table, a loose silk wrap across her shoulders. Her skin was faintly red from the hot water of the shower. A cigarette dangled from her full red lips and the spiral of smoke rose over her head. She took time fixing her nails.
Dillon jerked open the door and walked in. Myra looked at him and glanced at the clock. It was not seven o’clock.
“You’re early,” she said, laying down the file. She pulled the wrap on and fastened the sash.
Dillon was very thoughtful. He went over to the window and, raising the blind a little, peered into the street. Myra watched him. She had an uneasy feeling that something had happened. “What is it?” she asked.
Without looking round, Dillon said, “Plenty.” He stood there a moment, then he dropped the blind and came back to the middle of the room. With his hat at the back of his head, he stared at Myra with blank eyes.
She said, “For God’s sake… what is it?”
“Hurst’s washed up,” he said abruptly.
“Little Ernie?” Myra got to her feet.
Dillon hesitated, then he shook his head.