Perowne stared at the scar. It might have been cut with a punch. As a matter of fact, it had. Presently he looked at me. I pressed my tobacco home and stared at the sky.
Perowne got out of his car and looked at her tracks. Then he picked up a stick and did some measuring. . . .
“You’re right,” said he. “Right to an eighth of an inch.”
“I know,” said I. “I measured your car last night.”
For a moment he never moved. Then he took out cigarettes, lighted one carefully and leaned against the door with a foot on the step.
“So I was wrong,” he said softly. “You do know how to drive.”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“Maybe,” said I, watching his right arm move. “I took your pistol, too,” I added carelessly.
For a moment or two he almost lost control. Then he took a deep breath.
“Well,” he sighed, “you’re thorough. I’ll give you that. And my chauffeur? I suppose I owe his failure to the same virtue.”