ured
girl. The police had cleared away the sensation seekers, but the lovely
lady of the blue automobile was left in peace. She seemed to be helping
the doctor.

"Keep off, please, keep off," the policemen repeated. "The ambulance'll
be round any instant."

But the ambulance did not take its cue. This was strange, for the
service was splendidly prompt. A man ran up bringing news that there'd
been a collision with a trolley. No one was hurt, but it meant a delay
before another ambulance could be called and respond.

"Can't we take her away in my car?" asked Beverley. "Oh, why shouldn't I
have her at my house? She's only a child, so thin and frail! Loving care
might save her. I'd have a trained nurse in. I'm Mrs. Roger Sands. You
may know my husband's name."

The name of Roger Sands was impressive. So was Beverley, and so was the
car. The ambulance wasn't at hand, and time pressed. It seemed as if the
offer might be accepted. The doctor was the physician engaged to attend
the employees of Moreton and Payntor, and had authority in the
neighbourhood. To test Mrs. Roger Sands' character he abruptly ordered
her into the surgical department--"ground floor, close by the side
street entrance"--to "fetch out a stretcher and be quick." Beverley
responded without hesitation, and in two minutes a startled boy appeared
with a canvas thing like a cot.

The doctor and one of the policemen got the childish body on to this
while Beverley darted to her waiting chauffeur. He--Robbins, an elderly
Englishman--was furious, but short of giving notice then and there,
could do nothing save obey. The folding chairs were pulled out: on one
was piled the car's best ornament, a large chinchilla rug, and some blue
silk cushions. These gave support for the foot of the stretcher, its
head resting on the seat; and the other folding chair was taken by the
doctor who, sitting there, could hold his patient safely in place. Mrs.
Roger Sands scrambled up beside her chauffeur, and did not even notice
that the man's face was a thundercloud.

Robbins could have cried. His last situation in England had been with a
duke. He would still have occupied it, had he not long passed the
"smart" age. Roger Sands had thought him an excellent guardian for
Beverley. Robbins didn't approve of America, but he had approved of his
mistress. There had seemed to him something queenly about her which
"reminded him of home," but to-day he was ashamed of her: to drive
throug