"Cold-blooded crowd," broke out Claybrook at length as they hurried on.
"I do hope he won't be sick," she replied.
He grunted. "In the army, wasn't he? Guess he can stand a little water. Used to worse than that."
And after apparently waiting for her to break the silence, he again ventured,
"I like the car. Think I'll have to see if I can't make some sort of deal with them. They'll probably come down a little off their perch." His tone seemed to invite her opinion, but she offered none.
They came into the stiff little parlour lobby of Mary Louise's apartment. It was quite dark as they got out of the automobile, and the stuffy room was dimly lit by a few feeble incandescent lamps in loose-jointed and rather forlorn gilt wall brackets. They made their way over to the elevator. The lobby was empty; even the blonde was absent from her post.
As they passed the faded plush divan Claybrook laid a detaining hand on her arm: "Sit down here a minute. I want to talk to you." His voice sounded rather gentle and subdued.
She turned and looked at him, wondering, and then obeyed.
"Listen," he began, and laid his hand quietly on hers. "Don't get sore at me because I was the cause of your friend's getting wet. It won't hurt him—just a little clothes-pressing bill—and I'd much rather he had that than for that car to slide off the cliff—especially when you were in it."
She felt somewhat mollified. "Was that what you wanted to say to me?" She looked at his face and saw there an odd expression—a sort of dogged shamefacedness.