“Keep away from me !” Charlie scrambled to his feet.
“And while I’m teaching you manners, I’m going to ask you where Mr. Selby is,” Tex went on. “It had better be the right place, because after that I’m going to look for him.”
‘“‘Keep away!”
Now Rollison leaned against the wall, able to see all he needed to see without being seen himself. It was a change and a pleasure to watch his work done for him, and he admired the slick way in which the American moved; this man had confidence above everything else. Gillian, sitting out of sight, was breathing heavily; Rollison knew she would not miss a great deal.
Charlie darted to one side.
Tex slipped the gun into his pocket, and grabbed the man.
Gillian screamed, for there was a flash as a knife appeared in Charlie’s hand. On the instant, Rollison’s automatic appeared in his, but even before that Tex had moved his tall, lithe body, there was a swift struggle, and the knife went flying towards a comer and clattered to the floor. As it curved its arc Charlie fell back under a series of swift, savage blows, and had no time to defend himself or even to shout or cry. He thumped against the wall, and there was terror in his eyes.
Tex stepped back.
“If it wasn’t for the lady’s presence, I’d finish the job on you,” he said, drawling more than ever.
Gillian appeared, and stood by his side, sideways to Rollison. Unexpectedly, Tex’s hand moved and took hers; and they stood hand-in-hand looking at Charlie, whose right eye was beginning to close, whose lips were split, and whose City clothes were not immaculate any longer.
“Where’s Mr. Selby?” Tex asked, conversationally.
Charlie didn’t answer.
“I don’t want to hurt you again,” said Tex, and then corrected himself. “Not while Gillian’s present, I mean. But I will if you won’t answer. Where is Selby?”
“He—he—he’s in Brighton, 51, Norton Street. It’s a boarding house. He’s not hurt.” Charlie couldn’t get the words out fast enough, once he had decided to talk. “Don’t tell anyone who told you, they’ll kill me !”
“What number of what street ?” demanded Tex.
“51, Norton Street, Brighton.”
“Thanks a million,” drawled Tex, and went on in a way which made Rollison think that he was smiling : “Why do you want to buy this farm so badly ?”
Now terror flared in Charlie’s eyes.
“I don’t know.”
“Come again.”
“I tell you I don’t know. I was told what to do, told how to handle it, I don’t know why.”
“You’d better find out why pretty fast.”
“It’s no use trying to make me tell you, I don’t know why,” denied Charlie, and he almost sobbed; it was a pathetic and degrading thing that a man could break down so completely. “Alan Selby was taken to 51, Norton Street, Brighton, that’s all I can tell you. That’s everything”
“You’ll find out why, brother,” said Tex, and released the girl’s hand and stepped forward.
“I don’t know why!” Charlie gasped.
“Someone knows, I guess. Who is it?”
When Charlie did not answer, partly because he was shivering so much, Tex . . .
“There—there’s a box-room,” Gillian told him huskily. She didn’t move. “I don’t know what I would have done without you. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to thank you.”
“Just sell me the farm for fifteen thousand pounds,” said Tex. “I went to the telephone and arranged to step up my offer. That’s all the thanks I want.” He hesitated, and as he looked at her, his expression changed. “At least, that’s all I thought I wanted, but I could change my mind. Did anyone tell you how beautiful you are ?”
Gillian said, still huskily: “I’ll get those sandwiches,” and turned away. But she quickly looked back. “We can go in your car to Brighton, can’t we?”
“You bet,” said Tex, as if that was the thing he wanted to hear more than anything else in the world.
Suddenly, Gillian exclaimed: “Oh, it’s crazy! I don’t even know your name.”
“William T. Brandt, of Dallas, Texas,” the American answered promptly. “Hence the Tex. I’ll see you,” he added, and smiled with obvious delight.
Gillian was on the way to the kitchen.
There was no way of judging what she meant to do, or whether she would be prepared to go to Brighton with the American. More likely, she expected him, Rollison, to appear at any moment; Gillian had already proved that she had a head on her shoulders.
Rollison backed into the kitchen, and stood behind the door. Gillian hurried in, and something she was wearing rustled. She made a bee-line for the back door, and Rollison then felt sure that she was going to look for him. She glanced out and up and down the garden, and he stepped after her, whispering :
“Don’t shout, Gillian, but I’m here.”
