Mary Ambrey had come downstairs again and was standing beside me. She never says to a crippled man, as other people do, “I’ll come back”—that promise which no one ever keeps.
“It’s a clear night—no one could have come to grief, surely,” she said.
“I hope to God that Harter was fit to drive a car,” said I, remembering that sudden loosening of Harter’s tongue.
“Did you think—”
“No, not really. But he did drink, during the evening. Fellows who’ve been in the East—”
“There’s a car coming up here.”
There was no need to comment to one another upon the speed with which that car could be heard tearing up the avenue.
Mary gave me her arm to the door and we saw the Standard, brought to a standstill so violently and so abruptly that her brakes jarred with a grinding noise.
It was General and Mrs. Kendal.
“They want help—just down by the bridge,” said the General hoarsely. “Harter has had a smash with a hired car—it’s very bad.”