But Dick found it hard to go on. “I didn't know but what—”
Beveridge turned abruptly at a noise up the street, placed two fingers in his mouth, and whistled. And after a moment Dick saw what had kept him waiting. It was no sense of delicacy. Beveridge had been looking for a carriage. “Get in, Smiley,” he said, when the driver pulled up.
“Get in?”
“Yes—after you.”
“You mean, then—”
“Well, what?”
“I didn't suppose after what has happened that you'd need me any longer.”
“Not need you, Smiley?” They were seated within the vehicle now, the door was shut, and the driver, the special agent's whispered word in his ear, was whipping up his horses. “I'm afraid you don't understand. I have no authority to let you off.”
It was his manner more than his words that suddenly swept away Dick's delicacy and aroused his anger. “The hell you haven't!” was his reply.
“Certainly not.”