"Is this Mr. Starratt?" the stranger began.
Fred nodded.
"Well, I'm sorry to bring bad news, but there's been a nasty accident. Mr. Hilmer's car went over a bank near Montara this afternoon… Mrs. Hilmer was hurt pretty badly, but everybody else is fairly well off… Your wife asked me to drop in and see you. I drove the car that helped rescue them… Don't be alarmed; Mrs. Starratt isn't hurt beyond a tough shaking up. But she feels she ought to stay with Mrs. Hilmer—under the circumstances."
Fred tried to appear calm. "Oh yes, of course … naturally… And how about Hilmer himself?"
The man shrugged. "He's pretty fair. So far a broken arm is all they've found wrong with him."
"His right arm, I suppose?" Fred suggested, with an air of resignation. He was wondering whether anybody at Hilmer's office had authority to sign checks.
"Yes," the visitor assented, briefly.
Fred Starratt had a hasty meal and then he took a direct car line for the Hilmers'. He had never been to their house, but he found just about what he had expected—a two-story hand-me-down dwelling in the Richmond district, a bit more pretentious and boasting greater garden space than most of the homes in the block. Helen answered his ring. She had her wrist in a tight bandage.
"Just a sprain," she explained, rather loftily. "The doctor says it will be all right in a day or two."
Fred sat down in an easy-chair and glanced up and down the living room. It was scrupulously neat, reflecting a neutral taste. The furniture was a mixture of golden and fumed oak done in heavy mission style and the pictures on the wall consisted of dubious oil paintings and enlarged photographs. A victrola stood in a corner, and the upright piano near the center of the room formed a background for a precisely draped, imitation mandarin skirt and a convenient shelf for family photographs and hand-painted vases. On the mantel an elaborate onyx-and-bronze clock ticked inaudibly.