There was a moment's difficult silence; then the man with the motor spoke.
"Mr. West, I think?"
The other looked him up and down in a single comprehensive glance that was like the flash of a sword blade.
"Certainly," he said curtly, "if you prefer it."
He was a short, thick-set man of past forty, with a face so grimly lined as to mask all expression. His eyes alone were vividly alert. They were the bluest eyes that Babbacombe had ever seen.
He accepted the curt acknowledgment with grave courtesy, and made a motion toward the car.
"Will you get in? My name is Babbacombe. I am here to meet you, as no doubt you have been told. You had better wear this"—opening out the coat he carried.
But West remained motionless, facing him on the grey, deserted road. "Before I come with you," he said, in his brief, clipped style, "there is one thing I want to know. Are you patronising me for the sake of philanthropy, or for—some other reason?"
As he uttered the question, he fixed Babbacombe with a stare that was not without insolence.
Babbacombe did not hesitate in his reply. He was not a man to be lightly disconcerted.