The chauffeur drew up at a huge factory and went inside. Returning very promptly, he informed his fare that they knew of no Sterling Motor Company, but there was in Woodbridge Street a young engineer named J. E. Sterling, who, they believed, made motor-cars.
“J. E. Sterling! That’s the man I want. Where is Woodbridge Street?”
“Right away down town; next door, as you might say, to the river front.”
“Very good; we’ll go there. Just drive past Mr. Sterling’s place, for if I do not like the look of it I shall not go in.”
By and by they turned into Woodward Avenue, and raced down town at a speed which Stranleigh thought must surely exceed the legal limit, if there was one. Woodbridge Street proved to be crowded with great lumbering trucks, loaded with vegetables for the most part, and among these vehicles the chauffeur threaded his way cautiously. They passed a small, rather insignificant shop, above whose window was painted—
“J. E. Sterling. Motor Engineer. Repairs
promptly executed. Satisfaction guaranteed.”
When the chauffeur came to a halt a little further on, Stranleigh said—
“The place doesn’t look very inviting, but as Mr. Sterling guarantees satisfaction, I think it but right to call upon him. I sha’n’t need you any more to-day.”
The door being open, Stranleigh walked in unannounced. A two-seated runabout, evidently brand new, stood by the window, where it could be viewed by passers-by. Further down the room rested a chassis, over which two men, one middle-aged and the other probably twenty-five, were bending, with tools in their hands. They were dressed in grease-stained blue overalls, and they looked up as Stranleigh entered.