“What is it?” she gasped.
“It’s all right, sis,” he assured her, as he jumped to the pavement and ran round to the front of the car where James was stooping over a huddled figure.
“My God, Jimmy! Did you hit him?”
“Missed him by a hair,” said the trembling chauffeur, as he knelt beside the prostrate figure. “Saw him laying there when I was right on top of him. Guess he’s had a fit or something.”
Bascomb lifted the shoulders of the prostrate man to a level with the headlights of the car. As the white light streamed over their faces he stifled an exclamation. The chauffeur stepped back.
“S-s-sh! It’s Mr. Ross, a friend of mine. Tell Miss Bascomb it’s all right.”
But his sister had followed him and stood gazing at the upturned ghastly face.
“Wallie!” she cried, “it’s David. Oh, Wallie—”
James sprang to her as she swayed, and drooped to a passive weight in his arms.
Together they carried her up the steps and into the house. Miss Ross directed them to an upper room, where with quiet directness she administered restoratives to the unconscious girl.