“That’s all very well,” said Tarlyon, “but what about my car?”
“What is the matter with your car?” asked Mr. Wagstaffe gently.
“There’s so damn little the matter with it,” snapped Tarlyon, “that it’s
probably half-way down the Dover road by now.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Wagstaffe wearily. “I see. Cars have an irresistible
fascination for Michael. I see. I am sorry. Was it a good car?...”
“Pity,” said Mr. Wagstaffe. “A great pity. He may, of course, return it.
He may. You cannot, of course, compel him to, for it would be difficult
for you, in your position, to put the police on him. But he may return
it on his own. Michael is not a bad boy, really. He will, I am sure,
communicate with me as to what I will offer for the return of my coins.
I will then give him the cheque you have so kindly promised to post to
me to-night, and perhaps he will soften also as regards your car and
return it to you. Naturally, he will expect your cheque to approximate
to the value of your car--say, half its value. Michael is something of
an expert about the value of cars. That’s why I said it was a pity, sir,
a pity that your car was not a cheap car. But I am sure you will have no
difficulty in finding a taxi-cab home. They are so abundant in Grosvenor
Square that my sleep is often disturbed by them....”
The rest of the story is not at all interesting. George Tarlyon’s car
was finally returned, and George Tarlyon is sorry that Mr. Michael
Wagstaffe’s nose is already broken.