He was a blonde, spiritless man, anaemic, and faintly handsome.
When he saw us a damp gleam of hope sprang into his light blue eyes.
"Hello, Wilson, old man," said Tom, slapping him jovially on the shoulder. "How's business?"
"I can't complain," answered Wilson unconvincingly. "When are you going to sell me that car?"
"Next week; I've got my man working on it now."
"Works pretty slow, don't he?"
"No, he doesn't," said Tom coldly. "And if you feel that way about it, maybe I'd better sell it somewhere else after all."
"I don't mean that," explained Wilson quickly. "I just meant--"
His voice faded off and Tom glanced impatiently around the garage.
Then I heard footsteps on a stairs and in a moment the thickish figure of a woman blocked out the light from the office door.