After the incident at the hotel I decided that it was time for me to go. I packed up that night and left to return
to the Midwest. New York was no place for people like me. It was years later when I found out what happened that next day. I had read about it in the press but they did not do the situation the justice that it deserved. It was only by chance that I ran into the head servant at Tom's estate who was there the day it all happened. I had been in West Egg visiting old business friends when we met. He was an
old man, maybe 65 years old or so. He had very thick, round spectacles and a tired complexion. He had recognized me from the day when I had been at the Buchanan's house with Gatsby, before we went into the city.
He told me that he was having tea on the second story when he heard the commotion. He saw George Wilson, distraught with grief over his wife's death, pacing on the front porch, pistol in hand. Tom tried to calm him down, but was unable to. George was convinced that it was Tom driving the
yellow car. He knew that Tom claimed to have owned it, was driving it, and even offered to sell it to him.
