"Listen," said Tom, shaking him a little. "I just got here a minute ago, from New York. I was bringing you that coupé we've been talking about. That yellow car I was driving this afternoon wasn't mine—do you hear? I haven't seen it all afternoon."
Only the Negro and I were near enough to hear what he said, but the policeman caught something in the tone and looked over with truculent eyes.
"What's all that?" he demanded.
"I'm a friend of his." Tom turned his head but kept his hands firm on Wilson's body. "He says he knows the car that did it. . . . It was a yellow car."
Some dim impulse moved the policeman to look suspiciously at Tom.
"And what color's your car?"
"It's a blue car, a coupé."
"We've come straight from New York," I said.
Someone who had been driving a little behind us confirmed this, and the policeman turned away.
"Now, if you'll let me have that name again correct"
Picking up Wilson like a doll, Tom carried him into the office, set him down in a chair, and came back.
"If somebody'll come here and sit with him," he snapped authoritatively. He watched while the two men standing closest glanced at each other and went unwillingly into the room. Then Tom shut the door on them and came down the single step, his eyes avoiding the table. As he passed close to me he whispered: "Let's get out."
Self-consciously, with his authoritative arms breaking the way, we pushed through the still gathering crowd, passing a hurried doctor, case in hand, who had been sent for in wild hope half an hour ago.
Tom drove slowly until we were beyond the bend—then his foot came down hard, and the coupé raced along through the night. In a little while I heard a low husky sob, and saw that the tears were overflowing down his face.
