I feverishly went on explaining.
"If you don't let me out I'll climb out," he said, and began to make as
good as his word over the tonneau.
Of course, there was nothing for it but to stop the car.
Jones deliberately descended and headed for New York.
I ran after him, while the chauffeur turned the car round and slowly
followed us both. It was a queer procession. First Jones, then I, then
the car.
Finally I overtook him.
"Jones," I panted. "Jones."
He muttered something about Ananias, and speeded up.
"But it was an awfully tight place," I pleaded. "Something had to be
done; you must make allowances; it was the first thing that came into
my head--and you must admit that it worked, Jones. Didn't she send you
the locket? Didn't she--?"
"What a prancing, show-off, matinee fool you've made me look!" he burst
out. "I have an old mother to support. I have an increasing practice. I
have already attracted some little attention in my chosen field--eye,
ear and throat. A nice figure I'd cut, traipsing around the battlefields
in a kimono, and looking for a kindly bullet to lay me low.
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