He screwed around in his seat. An elderly, gray-whiskered gentleman, a patently irate gentleman, was pounding furiously on the glass panel.
“We should be turnin' down this street we're just passin',” grinned the chauffeur.
John Bruce lowered the panel.
“What's the meaning of this?” thundered the fare.
“I'm very sorry, sir,” said John Bruce respectfully.
“A little detective business.” He coughed. It was really quite true. His voice became confidential. “The occupants of that car ahead got away from me. I—I want to arrest one of them. I'm very sorry to put you to any inconvenience, but it couldn't be helped. There was no other way than to commandeer your taxi. It will be only for a matter of a few minutes.”
“It's preposterous!” spluttered the fare. “Outrageous! I—I'll——”
“Yes, sir,” said John Bruce. “But there was nothing else I could do. You can report it to headquarters, of course.”
He closed the panel.
“Fly-cop—not!” said the chauffeur, with his tongue in his cheek. “Any fly-cop that ever got his mitt on a whole fifty-dollar bill all at one time couldn't be pried lose from it with a crowbar!”