“Put you under arrest, indeed!” sniffed Jasper J. Morton. “Why, it was a clear case of mistake, wasn’t it? She says it was. You’ve got a friend who’s got a car like that, haven’t you? You can show ’em--the car and the friend--as soon as we get into Dinard. You’ll ride back with me, both of you, if my man ever gets that puncture mended.” Jasper J. Morton pulled out a roll of fifty-franc notes and flourished them at the sergeant, who was staring uncomprehendingly. “How much do you want, my good fellow? I’ll go bail, or whatever you please to call it. Ask him how much he wants, Miss B. A. Where’s your dictionary? No,” as Mr. Blake started forward, “you wait a minute. She’ll manage him best.”