“Yes?” he said quietly.
Jessie Aylmore looked up at him, smiling faintly.
“I want to speak to you,” she said. “I must speak to you.”
“Yes,” said Spargo. “But—the others? Your sister?—Breton?”
“I left them on purpose to speak to you,” she answered. “They knew I did. I am well accustomed to looking after myself.”
Spargo moved down the by-street, motioning his companion to move with him.
“Tea,” he said, “is what you want. I know a queer, old-fashioned place close by here where you can get the best China tea in London. Come and have some.”
Jessie Aylmore smiled and followed her guide obediently. And Spargo said nothing, marching stolidly along with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, his fingers playing soundless tunes outside, until he had installed himself and his companion in a quiet nook in the old tea-house he had told her of, and had given an order for tea and hot tea-cakes to a waitress who evidently knew him. Then he turned to her.
“You want,” he said, “to talk to me about your father.”
“Yes,” she answered. “I do.”