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.