He climbed them without hesitation or any attempt at secrecy, buttoning his cord jacket so the gun butt would be hidden. They were waiting for him, McBride rising from his canvas chair and Muriel sitting on the couch between two windows. She still wore the same dress he had seen that afternoon; her handsome face was grave, the dark eyes quickly alert, the dark hair showing auburn tints in the lamplight. “You’re late,” McBride said, but his manner was casual and he did not sound as if it mattered. “A little.” “Muriel said you’d come.” “Muriel was right.” McBride was watching the pouch Barry carried and now he said: “Put it there on the table, Barry.” He was wearing slacks and a blazer now in contrast to the usual bush jacket, and without making any attempt to hide his movement he reached back under the jacket and pulled a foreign-looking automatic pistol from his pocket. “Move back,” he said. “Over there in the chair next to the sofa. Don’t worry too much about this”—he gestured with the gun—“it’s just that I don’t want to take chances until we’ve done a bit of business.”
