He took out his pocketbook and asked for the brother’s address. The grocer gave directions; Mr. Cardan carefully took them down. Smiling and bowing, the grocer ushered them out into the street, Miss Thriplow vailed her handkerchief and drew a breath of air—redolent, however, even here, of organic chemistry. “Patience,” said Mr. Cardan, “tenacity of purpose. One needs them here.” They walked slowly down the street. They had only gone a few yards when the noise of a violent altercation made them turn round. At the door of the shop the grocer and his two customers were furiously disputing. Voices were raised, the grocer’s deep and harsh, the women’s shrill; hands moved in violent and menacing gestures, yet gracefully withal, as was natural in the hands of those whose ancestors had taught the old masters of painting all they ever knew of expressive and harmonious movement. “What is it?” asked Miss Thriplow. “It looks like the preliminaries of a murder.” Mr. Cardan smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “It’s nothing,” he said. “They’re just calling him a robber; that’s all.” He listened for a moment more to the shouting. “A little question of short weight, it seems.” He smiled at Miss Thriplow. “Should we go on?” They turned away; the sound of the dispute followed them down the street. Miss Thriplow did not know whether to be grateful to Mr. Cardan for saying nothing more about her friend in the white apron. These simple folk ... the little shovel for the sugar ... so much better, so much _gooder_ than we.... In the end she almost wished that he would say something about it. Mr. Cardan’s silence seemed more ironic than any words. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER VI