They were turning into a cross-road now which led up-hill into another strip of wood. Shadows of tall pines and oak trees made it like a solemn temple, into the arched aisles of which they seemed to be entering. Gertrude did not see, and apparently the motionless automaton before her did not, that other machine gliding on in the shadowy road above and toward them. There was a jar and a crash and they all came down together.
Gertrude Van Deusen, inside her prison, was not hurt, but at last, her chauffeur was shaken out of his stoicism. Extricating himself from the wreck, he hurried to unfasten the door which was uppermost.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, speaking for the first time in twenty-two miles.
"I don't know. I think not. But let me out," she answered.
He drew her out and she was soon on the ground again. There was a groan.
"Who is that? There is a man hurt somewhere. We must get him out;" she said. "Hurry."
By this time the driver of the other machine had crawled out and was on his feet.
"It's Allingham," he said, in a tone of horror. "He's under the gear—"
"Then get him out—quick," cried Gertrude.
Her coolness and quickness of wit stimulated the two men and they set about releasing the imprisoned sufferer. But it was Gertrude Van Deusen who directed them and drew him out from under the wrecked machine, as the two chauffeurs lifted the weight above him.