Dave Henderson shook his head impatiently.
“No; we'll go now,” he answered.
Emmanuel in turn shook his head.
“I gotta some peep' downstairs in da restaurant,” he said. “I gotta stay maybe an hour yet.”
Dave Henderson considered this for a moment. He could walk out on the streets now quite freely. It was no longer necessary that he should be hidden in a car. But Nicolo Capriano had told Emmanuel to use the car. Emmanuel would not understand, and he, Dave Henderson, had no intention of enlightening the other why a car was no longer necessary. Neither was Emmanuel himself necessary—there was Mrs. Tooler's pigeon-cote. If he went there before going to Nicolo Capriano! His brain was racing now. Yes, the car, without Emmanuel, would be a great convenience.
“All right!” he said crisply. “You stay here, and look after your restaurant. There's no need for you to come. I'll take the car myself.”
“You drive-a da car?” asked Emmanuel dubiously. Dave Henderson laughed quietly. The question awakened a certain and very pertinent memory. There were those who, if they chose to do so, could testify with some eloquence to his efficiency at the wheel of a car!
“Well, I have driven one,” he said. “I guess I can handle that old bus of yours.”
“But”—Emmanuel was still dubious—“Capriano say no take-a da risk of being seen on——”
“I'm not looking for any risk myself,” interposed Dave Henderson coolly. “It's dark now, and there's no chance of anybody recognizing me while I'm driving a car. Forget it, Emmanuel! Come on! I don't want to stick around here for another hour. Here!”—from his pocket he produced a banknote, and pushed it across the table to the other.