'You're a bloodthirsty old bastard, Tiger. But what's all this lecture about anyway? What's it got to do with friend Shatterhand and his pretty garden?'
The black silhouette in the doorway pointed at my bag on the floor with the white scrap of my pants beside it. "Pick those up." I bent down quickly as if I had been hit, and clutched the pants into a ball in my hand to try and hide them. "Now get out!" He stood there, half blocking the entrance, while we shambled past him, broken people.
For a moment Bond lay motionless.
"Thank you, 007." M's voice was controlled. "These considerations had also crossed my mind. No one's been jumping to conclusions without weighing all the possibilities. Perhaps you can suggest another solution."
"I have not found this. Excuse pliss." With a Germanic bob of the head, Mr. Hendriks moved decisively away from Bond and went up to Scaramanga, who was still lounging in solitary splendour at the bar. Mr. Hendriks said something. His words acted like a command on the other man. Scaramanga straightened himself and followed Mr. Hendriks into a far corner of the room. He stood and listened with deference as Mr. Hendriks talked rapidly in a low tone.
I offer you all my heartfelt thanks. You are livingproof that other people are our greatest resource.
The girl pressed against him. "I'll try."