“I shall expect conversation with compound interest,” returned the other good-humouredly.
He was, however, quite quiet until Christopher turned into a narrow back street.
“That’s not your best way,” said Peter Masters sharply.
“I’m going to call on a friend,” replied the driver without apology.
They threaded their way through a maze of small ill-looking streets, slowly enough, for there were children all over the road; not infrequently a big dray forced them to proceed backwards. Masters noted that Christopher never expected the legitimate traffic should give way to him. They emerged at last on a crowded thoroughfare of South London, where small shops elbowed big ones and windows blazed with preposterous advertisements. There were trams too, and scarcely room for the big car between rail and pavement. Presently they stopped before a prosperous-looking grocery store. A white-aproned man rushed out with undisguised complacency to wait on the fine equipage.
“I want to see Mr. Sartin if he’s free,” said Christopher, and waited quietly.
In a minute Sam was with them, white-aproned, pencil behind ear. To Masters’s amusement his companion greeted the young grocer with the familiarity of long friendship.
“I heard from Jessie the other day,” said Christopher when he had explained his appearance; “what about this man Cladsley? Is she going to marry him?”
Sam looked down the street, a little frown on his face. 194
“Jessie’d no business to write you. Cladsley’s all right. Don’t you worry about Jessie.”