“Robbed of what?”
“My wife, sir.”
“Robbed of your wife?” questioned Nick, surprised and almost inclined to laugh.
“That’s the blooming truth, Mr. Carter, or how it looks to me. I’m as hard hit as if I’d got a jolly bash on the beak. She’s a bally American girl, is Mollie, and——”
“Stop a moment,” Nick interrupted again. “My time is valuable. I cannot listen to your digressions. Answer my questions briefly and to the point. I then may be able to aid you, if there is any real occasion.”
“That’s deuced kind, old top, on my word. If——”
“When did you lose your wife, and where?” Nick cut in a bit sharply.
“I didn’t lose her. She was jolly well stolen; I’m sure of that.”
“Where and when? By whom?”
“Blast it, how can I tell?” protested the Englishman, with wagging head. “We were walking down the avenue, Mollie and I, don’t you know? A limousine shot by us, heading uptown. I heard it come to a blooming quick stop. A chauffeur came running back, a bally bounder in bottle-green livery. He tipped his lid, respectfullike, and said as how his fare had caught sight of Mollie when passing us and wanted to speak to her.”