Fitz's exclamation and his tragic face banished the smile that lurked at the corners of Coverdale's lips.
I deemed it best that Fitz should re-tell the story of his tragedy, and this he did. In the course of his narrative the sweat ran down his face, his hands twitched painfully, and his bloodshot eyes grew so wild that neither Coverdale nor I cared to look at them.
Coverdale sat mute and grave at the conclusion of Fitz's remarkable story. He had swung round in his revolving chair to face us. His legs were crossed and the tips of his fingers were placed together, after the fashion that another celebrity in a branch of his calling is said to affect.
"It's a queer story of yours, Fitzwaren," he said at last. "But the world is full of 'em—what?"
"Help me," said Fitz, piteously. His voice was that of a drowning man.
"I think we shall be able to do that," said Coverdale. He spoke in the soothing tones of a skilful surgeon.
"The first thing to know," said the Chief Constable, "is the number of the car."
"G.Y. 70942 is the number."
Coverdale jotted it down pensively upon his blotting-pad.
"Have you a portrait of Mrs. Fitzwaren?" he asked.