"Yes," he roared. "Yes, damn you, it's an order!"
One of the cars he had flagged slowed down, pulled over to where he stood with Jerry. But it was not a taxi. It was a small chauffeur-driven town car. The young Marques de Runa sat alone in the back seat.
"Good evening," he smiled. "Can I give you and your young lady a lift? You'll never be able to get a public car tonight."
"Thanks." Hall took Jerry's elbow, pulled her toward the door. He made the introductions, then climbed in after Jerry and shut the door. "We were just going to the Bolivar," he said.
"Were you trying to escape from the mobs?" the Marques asked.
"No. The lady has a bad cold. We thought the sea air might do it some good."
"You should try the mountain air," the Marques said. "I always take to the mountain air when I have a cold, Señor Hall. Don't you think the mountain air is better?"
Hall let the question go unanswered. He was looking into the mirror over the driver's seat, studying what he could see in the small glass of the chauffeur's face.
"The mountain air, Señor Hall."
"Oh, yes. Very dry. Perhaps the lady will try the mountain air. What do you think, Jerry?"