And, since this was a day in which events trod upon each other's heels
to reach him, it befell that as he loitered on the curb a gray touring
car rolled up, stopped, and a short, stout man emerging therefrom
disappeared hurriedly within the portals of an office building.
Thompson's gaze rested speculatively on the machine. Gray cars were
common enough. But without a doubt this was the same vehicle. The
chauffeur in the peaked cap was not among those present--but Thompson
could take oath on the other two. The young man sat behind the steering
wheel.
He, too, it presently transpired, was spurred by recognition. His roving
eyes alighted upon Thompson with a reminiscent gleam. He edged over in
his seat. Thompson stood almost at the front fender.
"I say," the man in the car addressed him bluntly, "weren't you in a red
roadster back at Third and Market about fifteen or twenty minutes ago?"
"I was," Thompson admitted.
Was he to be arrested forthwith on a charge of assault and battery?
Policemen were plentiful enough in that quarter. All one had to do was
crook his finger. People could not be expected to take kindly to having
their chauffeur mauled and disabled like that. But Thompson stood his
ground indifferently.
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