“No,” he said; “no, thank you, I commenced smokin’ at the butt end, I guess. Begun with a pipe, and them things would seem sort of kindergarten, I’m afraid. No offense meant, you understand. It’s all accordin’ to what you’ve been used to. Well, about the questions. Here’s the first one: Don’t it seem to you that the right one to pay for the doctorin’ and nursin’ and such of Mr. Moriarty—that’s Annie’s pa—ought to be the feller who hurt him? That feller, instead of Caroline?”
“Sure thing! If you know who did it, he’s your mark.”
“He could be held responsible, couldn’t he?”
“Certainly.”
“Um-hm. So I thought. And if he was a right-minded chap, he’d be glad to help the poor critter, providin’ he knew what damage he’d done; wouldn’t you think so?”
Malcolm nodded sagely, opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again. A sudden recollection came to him, an alarming recollection. He turned in his chair and looked at his visitor. Captain Elisha met his gaze frankly.
“Where did this accident happen?” asked Mr. Dunn, his condescending smile absent.
“At the corner of Saint Nicholas Avenue and One Hundred and Twenty-Eighth Street. It happened last Friday mornin’, a week ago. And the car that hit him was a yellow one.”
Malcolm did not answer. His pale face grew paler, and then flushed a brilliant red. The captain seemed to feel sorry for him.
“Naturally,” he went on, “when I heard about it, I remembered what you told Mr. Sylvester and me at the club that afternoon. I understand how ’twas, of course. You never thought you’d done any real harm and just went on, thinkin’ ’twas a good joke, much as anything. If you’d known you’d really hurt the poor old man, you’d have stopped to see him. I understand that. But—”