“It must run cold if you think I’m going to send that man off in an ambulance,” announced Miss Frink. “Here, lift him into your car, Grim, and Adèle, you go for Dr. Morton and bring him to the house.”
“The house, Miss Frink?” asked the secretary. “Don’t you mean the hospital, dear lady?”
“No, I do not,” snapped the “dear lady.”
One of the gathering crowd came up with a dusty suitcase. “This must be his,” he said, and the secretary accepted it, gloomily.
Adèle Lumbard gave one look at the unconscious face of the rescuer as he was lifted into the waiting car and Miss Frink took the place beside him, then she jumped into an eagerly offered motor and sped away.
Miss Frink leaned out and addressed the shaken coachman.
“Get the horses home somehow, Foley.” Then to the increasing crowd: “It is my wish that you go on with the programme. I am not hurt in the least, and later Mr. Grimshaw or Mrs. Lumbard will represent me.”
She steadied the form of the injured man beside her while her secretary drove toward the house on the outskirts of the town. His brow was exceedingly dark. He was afraid the cut on the stranger’s head would stain the upholstery of the car. Once he turned toward his employer and made a last effort.
“You know they give them the very best care at the hospital,” he suggested.