tell herself that her refusal to talk to him was dictated by a finely conscious dignity. But she knew very well that such was not the case. He had indeed spoken truly when he said that she could not talk because she had not thought. She had not. And she was not at all incredulous at his prophecy that she might one day call him back. She would think more about these matters—she had begun, perforce but none the less certainly, to think about them already.

The reporter, still studying her quizzically, and so intently as to make her consciously uncomfortable, rose slowly.

"I'm sorry, Miss Wynrod. I've had a wasted trip—and yet I haven't. You're beginning to think. Some day you will talk. Perhaps I shall be present. I am glad we have become friends—you, too, Mr. Wynrod. Good morning."

In spite of his awkwardness, his movements were rapid. It seemed almost like a fairy disappearance, so quickly was he out of sight behind the hedge. Only his dilapidated straw hat could be seen bobbing rhythmically out of view.

"Well, of all cranks," laughed Roger. "And the nerve of him. Did you hear his calm assumption that we have now become fast friends? Can you beat it?"

But Judith said: "It's a long road to the station. I should have sent the car." And then, suddenly feeling an unaccountable distaste for her brother's society, she went thoughtfully into the house.

In the hall she encountered Faxon, in search of her. He had to make the 10.46, and had none too much time to get to the station.

"Joris will take you down," she said mechanically, when he had explained.

"He's taken Alder and some of the others up to the golf club."

"And Picard?"

"He's off somewhere, too."

"How stupid. Well, I'll take you down myself. Let's see. Oh, we can make it easily. It's only a quarter past now. I'll have the electric around in a moment."

While she waited for the car to be brought around, she found herself responding perfunctorily to Mr. Faxon's running comment on all sorts of things in general, conscious that for the first time he was rather tiresome. She had never taken his attentions to herself seriously. She knew that he had a certain interest in pretty Della Baker rather warmer than was permissible in the case of a married woman, and she shut her eyes to the fact that her house gave them opportunities to meet that they would not otherwise have had. Yet she believed there was no real harm in Della, and as for Faxon,—well, he had flirted with so many women in his time that she could not take him altogether seriously either with herself or with others. And he usually succeeded in being amusing. But to-day she had no desire to be amused. She was thinking earnestly for perhaps the first time in her life ... wondering what she really did think about things in general.

As she seated herself in the car and Faxon climbed in beside her, she grew more silent, and her thoughts strayed very far away from Braeburn. In spite of a very considerable reluctance on her part, they persisted in wandering to an ugly little collection of shanties, piled helter-skelter in the midst of lowering hills, where men went down into the earth and came up—something less than men—where twenty-two ... over and over again that wretched phrase persisted in repeating itself, until she wanted to scream. Why had she ever allowed that disagreeable stranger to spoil her day?

Suddenly, as if to punctuate her thoughts, she caught sight of a familiar figure marching jerkily along the dusty road in front of her. He was even more grotesque from behind, but there was something pathetic in the weary droop of his shoulders. She felt acutely conscious of the comfort of her vehicle.

Two or three times as she neared the angular pedestrian, she rang her bell. But he either did not hear it or he did not notice it; for he kept on in his uneven stride, with his head bent well forward, and his bedraggled straw almost over his ears.

She was almost upon him, and the narrowness of the road showed little clearance between him and the machine, when she rang again. The sound seemed to startle and confuse him. His head rose with a jerk and he stopped short. Then he stepped, with the utmost deliberateness, directly in the path of the approaching car.

With all the power in her lithe body, Judith jammed on both brakes. But it was too late. There was a crash of glass as Faxon's cane went through the window. On her knees where she had been thrown by the suddenness of the stop she heard his "damned ass!" gritted through his teeth. She remembered afterward that she had wondered whether the epithet was for herself or for the stranger in the road. But at the time she heard only the horrible crunch of steel against flesh, the muffled snap as of a broken twig, and a low groan, twice repeated.

Faxon was out of the car in an instant, and standing in the road, his face white as chalk, frantically motioning to her to reverse. In a daze she put on the power, and when she had moved back a few feet, followed him outside.

But her daze was only momentary. For just an instant she stood stupidly watching Faxon struggle with a dreadfully inanimate brown mass. Then she became herself.

"Here," she cried. "In the car—quick." And when Faxon seemed indecisive, she laid hold of the unconscious figure herself and helped to lift it into the machine.

As she climbed in after it, Faxon made as if to follow her. But she waved him off.

"You can make that train if you hurry," she said sharply. "It's only a little way to the station." And with that she tossed his cane to him, and all but kicked his bag after it.

Faxon expostulated, but she was too occupied in turning her car around to heed him. The sudden sharp hum of the motor as she jumped from speed to speed made him realise the futility of his protests, and so, philosophically, but not a little shaken by the suddenness of it all, he picked up his bag and stick and made for the station.

Judith, as she sped homeward, did not trust herself to glance at the crumpled figure on the floor beside her. And over and over again, as she urged the car to its utmost, she kept repeating an almost wordless prayer—

"I mustn't faint ... I mustn't faint ... I mustn't...."

She was almost home when the brown bundle stirred faintly, and she caught a weak groan. Still she dared not look. It was only when she was forced to, that she turned her eyes in answer to a weakly whispered question.

"What's up?"

"Oh, I'm so glad!" she breathed, more to herself than to him, "so glad ... I thought...." Then, a little louder—"Where are you hurt?"

"My leg, I think," said the injured man, in a voice that was a pitiful travesty of the one that had talked to her so earnestly in her garden, only a few minutes before. "It—it hurts like the dickens."

She rang her bell frantically all the way up the drive to the house, and there were half a dozen excited people to meet her. She was far calmer than they and she superintended the removal of Good from the car with perfect impassiveness. But he had lost consciousness again, and the sight of his bloodless face, deathly pallid save for the crimson splash on one cheek, almost unnerved her.

"Take him to the grey room, Portis," she said quietly. "And tell somebody to get Dr. Ruetter. He's staying at Mrs. Craven's. Please hurry." It was very hard to keep her voice calm, but she managed to accomplish it.

Finally, when she could think of nothing else to do, and to the very great amazement of everyone, she suddenly collapsed in a dead faint.

When she came to herself again, Dr. Ruetter was standing over her.

"Well, young lady," he said cheerfully. "You've made quite a morning of it."

Her first thought was of Good.

"Tell me," she cried anxiously. "How is he? Is he very badly hurt? Will he die?"

"Unquestionably," smiled the Doctor. But when she sank back with a groan, he added, "just like we all will."

"Oh. Then he isn't fatally hurt?"