She had given her horse a cut with the whip, had sent Vane a stare of the most open contempt, and was now off and away. Vane stood staring after her. "Very nice little filly," he murmured. "Very!" Then he gave his house number to the cabman. Turning into Park avenue, at Thirty-Ninth street, the horse slipped on the asphalt. The hansom spun on one wheel, and then crashed against a lamp-post. Vane was almost stunned, though there was no mark on him anywhere. He felt himself all over, but he could feel not as much as a lump. But his head ached horribly; he felt queerly incapable of thought. Whatever it was that had happened to him, it had stunned something in him. What that something was he did not realize even as he told Nevins, who opened the door to him in some alarm: "Send the cab over to Mr. Reginald Hart's. Say I must--do you hear, Nevins?--I must have him here within the hour--if he has to come in a chair!" Not even when he let the veil glide from the new mirror did he understand what part of him was stunned. He moved about in a sort of half wakefulness. The time he spent before Hart's arrival was all a stupor, spent on a couch, with eyes closed. Hart came in feebly, leaning on a stick. "Funny thing of you to do," he piped, "sending for me like this. What the--" He straightened himself in front of the new mirror, and, for an instant, swayed limply there. Then his stick took an upward swing, and he minced across the room vigorously. "Why, Vane," he said, "not ill, are you? Jove, you know, I've had a siege, myself. Feel nice and fit this minute, though. Shouldn't wonder if the effort to get here had done me good. What was the thing you wanted me for?" Vane shook his head, feebly. "Upon my word, Hart, I don't know. I had an accident; cab crushed me; I was a little off my head, I think. All a mistake." "Sorry, I'm sure," lisped Hart, "hope it won't be anything real. I tell you I feel quite out of things. All the other way with you, eh! Hear you're no end of a choice thing with the _cafe au lait_ gang. Well, adios!" Vane lay quite still after the other had gone. When he spoke, it was to say, to the emptiness of the room, but nodding to where Hart had last stood: "What a worm! What an utter worm!" The voice was once more the voice of Orson Vane. As realization of that came to him, he spoke again, so loud that Nevins, without, heard it. "Thank God," he said. CHAPTER VIII.