His fingers closed, talon-like, on the manila envelope. He flashed the unbroken red seal at the officer, with a little laugh of triumph. That laugh seemed to madden MacNutt, as he made a second ineffectual effort to break into that tense and rapid cross-fire of talk.
"And you don't want to lay a charge?" the policeman demanded, as he angrily elbowed back the ever intruding circle.
"Let 'em go!" said Durkin, backing toward his cab.
"But what's the papers, and what t'ell does she want with 'em?" interrogated the officer.
"Correspondence!" said Durkin easily, almost lightheartedly. "Kind of personal stuff. They're—he's drunk, anyway!" For stumbling angrily out of the cab, MacNutt was crying that it was all a pack of lies, that they were a quarter of a million in money and that the officer should arrest Durkin on the spot, or he'd have him "broke."
"And then you'll chew me up an' spit me out, won't you, you blue-gilled Irish bull-dog?" jeered the irate officer, already out of temper with the unruly crowd jostling about him.
"I say arrest that man!" screamed the claret-faced MacNutt.
"And I say I'll run you in, and run you in mighty quick, if you don't get rid o' them jim-jams pretty soon!"
"By God, I'll take it out of you for this, when my turn comes!" raved MacNutt, turning, purplish gray of face, on the deprecating Durkin. "I'll take it out of you, by God!"
"There—there! He's simply drunk, officer; and the woman has squared herself. I don't want to press any charge. But you'd better take his name!"