“Who said so?” inquired Jimmie Dale.
“She did. The woman who brought you here about five minutes ago. She said she ran you down with her car.”
“Oh!” said Jimmie Dale. He felt his head—it was bandaged, and it was bandaged, he was quite sure, with a piece of torn underskirt. He looked at the man again. “You haven't told me yet where I am.”
“Long Island,” the other answered. “My name's Hanson. I keep a bit of a truck garden here.”
“Oh,” said Jimmie Dale again.
The man crossed the room, picked up an envelope from the table, and came back to Jimmie Dale.
“She said to give you this as soon as you got your senses, and asked us to put you up for a while, as long as you wanted to stay, and paid us for it, too. She's all right, she is. You don't want to hold the accident up against her, she was mighty sorry about it. And now I'll go and see if the old lady's got your room ready while you're readin' your letter.”
The man left the room.
Jimmie Dale sat up on the couch, and tore the envelope open. The note, scrawled in pencil, began abruptly:
“You were quite a problem. I couldn't take you HOME—could I? I couldn't take you to what you call the Sanctuary could I? I couldn't take you to a hospital, nor call in a doctor—the stain you use wouldn't stand it. But, thank God! I know it's only a flesh wound, and you are all right where you are for the day or two that you must keep quiet and take care of yourself. By the time you read this the paper will be on the way to the proper hands, and by morning the four where they should be. There were a few articles in your clothes I thought it better to take charge of in case—well, in case of ACCIDENT.”