“As good as ever,” he said. “Do you want to buy it?”
“No,” said Crewe. “I have one already.” He nodded in the direction of his car outside.
“She’s a beauty,” said Gosford. “But those Bodesly touring cars run into a lot of money. You paid a big price for her, I’ll be bound.”
“Oh, yes. You motor-car people are never reasonable—manufacturers, garage proprietors, repairers, you are all alike.”
“No, no, sir, we are very reasonable here. That is what I pride myself on.”
“In that case I’ll know where to bring my repairs. But to-day all I want is some petrol. That is what I came for, but when I saw this car I thought I’d like to see what sort of job you had made of it. The last time I saw it was when it was lying in the ditch about six miles from here on the road to Ashlingsea.”
“Oh, you saw her there?” said Mr. Gosford genially. “But there wasn’t much the matter with her, beyond a bent axle.”
“I hope that is what you told the gentleman who left it there—Mr. ——?”
“Mr. Brett,” said Mr. Gosford, coming to the relief of his visitor’s obvious effort to recall a name.
“Ah, yes; Mr. Brett,” said Crewe. “Was it Thursday or Friday that I met him on the Ashlingsea road in this car?”