the car, and said, "What's your friend the baronet's address?"
I gave him Bottiger's club, and he said good-afternoon and turned to go in. As he turned, there came bouncing down the steps, his coat-tails dancing, his hat tottering, his copper-colored face distorted with fury, his pig's eyes blazing, the late Albert Amsted Pudleigh.
In a breath he had gripped Honest John Driver's collar, and, hanging on to it, shrieked: "You rascal! You scoundrel! Where's my money? Where's my share of Amalgamated Fertilizers? You thought I'd gone for good. But I haven't. I've just come out of hospital, and got my memory back, to find that you've unloaded without waiting for me. But I'm going to have my money! I'm going to have it!"
Honest John Driver shook himself free, his face once more brazenly honest. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said, with splendid dignity. "I'm Honest John Driver, and this is no way to talk to me. What's the good of making a scene, man? Come inside and I'll talk to you there." And he caught Pudleigh's arm and bundled him up the steps with an activity which surprised me.
Chelubai started the car, and drove her gently along on third speed; he seemed unusually careful of the traffic.
