Chrostwaite spoke again, still regarding his knees.
“Damned nuisance!” he said.
“That is what we wish to avoid,” the attorney continued. “We are willing to pay a stiff fine, and expect to, for the accident on Van Ness Avenue was clearly Mr. Chrostwaite’s fault. But we—”
“Drunk as a lord!” Chrostwaite said.
“But we don’t want to have this other accident, with which we had nothing to do, given a false weight in connection with the slighter accident. What we want, then, is to find the man or men who stole the car and ran down John Newhouse. If they are apprehended before we go to court, we won’t be in danger of suffering for their act. Think you can find them before Monday?”
“I’ll try,” I promised; “though it isn’t—”
The human balloon interrupted me by heaving himself to his feet, fumbling with his fat jeweled fingers for his watch.
“Three o’clock,” he said. “Got a game of golf for three-thirty.” He picked up his hat and gloves from the desk. “Find ’em, will you? Damned nuisance going to jail!”
And he waddled out.