“I should warn you it is a new road to me and I’ve had my car nearly a year; it’s due to go wrong somehow, and I drive rather fast.”
“I expect you set sufficient value on your own life to insure mine.”
“It will be cold. You can’t ride in that thin coat.”
“You pass the Carlton; I’m staying there. It won’t delay us two minutes. What luck.”
He walked round and got into the car, oblivious of the trifling fact its owner had neither acquiesced nor expressed an enthusiasm over the luck.
“I hope he is nervous,” thought Christopher vindictively, “though there’s not much chance of it. He hasn’t much hair to stand on end, but I’ll do my best to make it.”
Peter Masters rolled himself contentedly in the spare rug. “Ready,” he said cheerfully.
Christopher, however, made no attempt to start. He beckoned to the footman.
“Fetch me the blue paper-covered book you’ll find on the second left-hand shelf of the low book-case in my room, Burton.”
He waited immovable while the man went on the errand, being quite determined to start unprompted by 192 Mr. Masters if he started at all. The old butler came out and acknowledged Mr. Masters’s presence with a deferential bow. He addressed himself to Christopher.