Part 33 (2/2)

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 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.

”Mr. Christopher, will you tell Mr. Aymer we've raised the Raphael in his room, as he said, four inches, but the paper is a little faded and it shows. What will he like us to do?”

Christopher nodded. ”All right, I'll tell him. I shall probably be up again next week.”

”We shall be glad to see you again, sir.”

Burton returned in indecorous hurry with the book. Christopher bade them good-bye in a friendly way and the car glided quietly down the drive out into the busy thoroughfare.

”You are quite at home there,” remarked Mr. Masters affably.

”It happens to be my home.”

It was a very busy hour and the driver of the car might reasonably be excused if he were silent. At all events if Mr. Masters spoke, Christopher did not hear him. They slipped in and out of the traffic, glided round corners, slid with smooth swiftness along free stretches of road, crept gingerly across a maze of cross-ways and drew up at the Carlton.

Peter Masters, who appreciated the situation and found humour in it, plunged into that Palace of Travellers and reappeared in an incredibly short time, coated for the occasion.

”Now,” he said cheerily, ”we are ready for the fray--when you are ready, Master Christopher,” he added with a twinkle in his eye.

But Christopher's ill-temper had evaporated with the short wait. After all, the man was Aymer's cousin, and he couldn't help being a brute, and if he really wanted to see St. Michael perhaps it was a piece of luck for him that the postman was late. So he laughed and said a little shyly he hoped Mr. Masters would not mind his not talking till they were out of the streets.

”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 advertis.e.m.e.nts. 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-ap.r.o.ned 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-ap.r.o.ned, pencil behind ear. To Masters's amus.e.m.e.nt his companion greeted the young grocer with the familiarity of long friends.h.i.+p.

”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.

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