Harry, leaning from the taxicab behind, uttered a groan. The roadster had gone over the cliff.
Fifty feet down the rock-gnarled hillside they took Pauline from the clutch of the dead driver. His fall had broken hers and it was only from fear that she had fainted. Harry, pressing the taxi driver's flask to her lips, saw her eyes open and his cry was like a prayer of thanksgiving.
When Harry lifted Pauline to carry her to the taxicab, to his abasement he felt her hands press him away. He thought she had not yet recovered, that she believed herself still in the grasp of the madman. He set her on her feet and looked at her questioningly.
Without a word she turned from him and started up the road.
"Pauline!" he cried. "What do you mean? Don't you know me? It's
Harry."
She kept on without turning. He caught her by the arm. "Don't you know me, your brother?" he pleaded.
She turned, tremblingly. "You are not my brother," she blazed. "And I did not know you until today."
"You are hurt and ill, dearest. Come, let me take you home."
She walked on up the road.
"But where are you going?" he demanded.