Yes, I did, didn't I? Ambrose agreed, grinning idiotically.
The milkman, driving straight ahead, stared at his strange passenger for a few seconds and then a silence fell between the two, a silence so complete that it created an embarrassment in Ambrose, but he could not think of a word to add to what had already been said. His embarrassment was by no means dissipated when, a little while later, they struck Wilshire Boulevard. In fact he was so utterly confused that he could not decide whether or not to give the fellow a tip. Eventually he decided against this procedure—the man might resent it, he considered as the car paused—and, with a self-conscious, flippant, Well, thank you; I'll see you again some time, he swung off the high box, balanced precariously on the mud-guard, stumbled, lost himself, and fell flat on his belly in the street.
Picking himself up hastily, he brushed what he could of the dust from his clothes, resentfully aware at the same time that the milkman had not waited to see whether he had killed himself, when suddenly he perceived that he was being closely scrutinized. He stared back at a figure on the kerb and, recognizing Herbert Ringrose, went forward to speak to him.
Well, Mr. Deacon? In Ringrose's tone was
