“Do you want to prosecute this gentleman?” asked the constable.
“Nichévo,” murmured the other. “No. Brandee.”
“Thought so,” said Jones. Then he walked away towards the entrance with the constable.
“My address is Carlton House Terrace,” said he. “When you get that chap on his pins you can tell him to come there and I’ll give him another dose. Here’s a sovereign for you.”
“Thanks, your Lordship,” said the guardian of the Peace, “you landed him fine, I will say. I didn’t see the beginning of the scrap, but I saw the knock out—you won’t have any more bother with him.”
“I don’t think so,” said Jones.
He was elated, jubilant, a weight seemed lifted from his mind, all his evil humour had vanished. The feel of those whiskers and the resisting jaw was still with him, he had got one good blow in at circumstance and the world. He could have sung. He was coming out of the station when someone ran up from behind.
It was Venetia. Venetia, delirious and jabbering.
“Teresa is in the car—You have done it now—you have done it now. What made you do this awful thing? Are you mad? Here in the open station—before everyone—you have h-h-heaped this last disgrace on us—on me.”
“Oh, shut up,” said Jones.