Saltash greeted him with airy nonchalance. "Hullo, Bolton! I came round to enquire for you. How's the broken crown?"
Jake's eyes regarded him, bright, unswervingly direct. "I reckon that was real kind of your lordship," he said. "I had it stitched this morning. I am sorry I omitted to send help along last night."
Saltash laughed. "Oh, that's all right. I hardly expected it of you. As a matter of fact the car didn't turn over as you supposed. I soon righted her. You were a bit damaged, eh?"
Jake's eyes were still upon him. There was something formidable in their straight survey. "So the car didn't turn over," he said, after a moment.
"No. If you'd hung on a bit tighter, you wouldn't have been pitched out. Old Harris brought you safe home, did he? No further mishaps by the way?"
"None," said Jake. He advanced into the room, and stopped by the table. His riding-whip was in his hand. "I came home too dazed to give an intelligible account of myself," he said, speaking very deliberately, wholly without emotion. "My wife imagined that I was not sober. Will your lordship be good enough to convince her that she was mistaken?"
"I?" said Saltash.
"You, my lord." Jake stood at the table, square and determined. "I was in your company. You can testify--if you will--that up to the time of the accident I was in a perfectly normal condition. Will you tell her so?"
Saltash was facing him across the table. There was a queer look on his swarthy face, a grimace half-comic, half-dismayed.
As Jake ended his curt appeal he shrugged and spoke. "You are putting me in a very embarrassing position."