, 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?"

"Bless you, no! Broken leg, that's all. Bad break, I'll admit--compound
fracture--but nothing to cause alarm."

"But he's got to go to a hospital," spoke up Roger, whom she had not
noticed before.

"The hospital? Who said so?"

"The Doctor. He says ..."

"Oh, by all means," said the Doctor, quite as if the prospect gave him
personal pleasure. "This isn't a bruised finger, you know. That chap
won't be up and around for three weeks or a month a