Then he stopped with a grim realization of just what it was that he had said. There was a long fateful pause from the other end of the wire.
“I'm afraid I don't quite understand, Mr. Crowe.”
“They wouldn't let me out. I was—er—detained—ah—kept in.”
“Detained?” The inflection is politely inquisitive.
“Yes, detained. You see—I—you—oh dammit, I was in jail.” This time the pause that follows had to Oliver much of the quality of that little deadly hush that will silence all earth and sky in the moment before Last Judgment. Then—
“In jail,” said the voice with an accent of utter finality.
“Yes—yes—oh it wasn't anything—I could explain in five seconds if I saw her—it was all a misunderstanding—I called the policeman a boob but I didn't mean it—I don't see yet why he took offence—it was just—”
He was stifling inside the airless booth—he trickled all over. This was worse than being court-martialled. And still the voice did not speak.
“Can't you understand?” he yelled at last with more strength of lung than politeness.
“I quite understand, Mr. Crowe. You were in jail. No doubt we shall read all about it in tomorrow's papers.”