Angel whistled.
“Conventionally?” he asked.
“Artistically,” responded Jimmy, nodding his bandaged head. “A runaway motor-car that followed my cab—beautifully done. The cab horse was killed and the driver has a concussion, but I saw the wheeze and jumped.”
“Got the chauffeur?” asked Angel anxiously.
“Yes; it was in the City. You know the City police? Well, they had him in three seconds. He tried to bolt, but that’s a fool’s game in the City.”
“Was it Spedding’s chauffeur?”
Jimmy smiled pityingly.
“Of course not. That’s where the art of the thing comes in.”
Angel looked grave for a minute.
“I think we ought to ‘pull’ our friend,” he said.