“But that's impossible, Mrs. Ellicott--that's too absurd” Oliver felt too much as if he were fighting for life against something invisible to be careful about his words. “I know we quarrelled last night--but it was all my fault, I didn't mean anything--I was going to call her up the first thing this morning but you see, they wouldn't let me out--” 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.” “No you won't--I gave somebody else's name.” “Oh.” Mrs. Ellicott was ticking off the data gathered so far on her fingers. The brutal quarrel with Nancy. The rush to the nearest blind-tiger. The debauch. The insult to Law. The drunken struggle. The prison. The alias. And now the attempt to pretend that nothing had happened--when the criminal in question was doubtless swigging from a pocket-flask at this very moment for the courage to support his flagrant impudence in trying to see Nancy again. All this passed through Mrs. Ellicott's mind like a series of colored pictures in a Prohibition _brochure_. “But I can explain that too. I can explain everything. Please, Mrs. Ellicott--” “Mr. Crowe, this conversation has become a very painful one. Would it not be wiser to close it?” Oliver felt as if Mrs. Ellicott had told him to open his bag and when he did so had pointed sternly at a complete set of burglar's tools on top of his dress-shirts. “Can-I-see-Nancy?” he ended desperately, the words all run together: But the voice that answered was very firm with rectitude. “Nancy has not the slightest desire to see you, Mr. Crowe. Now or ever.” Mrs. Ellicott asked pardon inwardly for the lie with a false humility--if Nancy will not save herself from this young man whom she has always disliked and who has just admitted to being a jailbird in fact and a drunkard by implication, she will.