Judith, as she sped homeward, did not trust herself to glance at the crumpled figure on the floor beside her. And over and over again, as she urged the car to its utmost, she kept repeating an almost wordless prayer—
"I mustn't faint ... I mustn't faint ... I mustn't...."
She was almost home when the brown bundle stirred faintly, and she caught a weak groan. Still she dared not look. It was only when she was forced to, that she turned her eyes in answer to a weakly whispered question.
"What's up?"
"Oh, I'm so glad!" she breathed, more to herself than to him, "so glad ... I thought...." Then, a little louder—"Where are you hurt?"
"My leg, I think," said the injured man, in a voice that was a pitiful travesty of the one that had talked to her so earnestly in her garden, only a few minutes before. "It—it hurts like the dickens."
She rang her bell frantically all the way up the drive to the house, and there were half a dozen excited people to meet her. She was far calmer than they and she superintended the removal of Good from the car with perfect impassiveness. But he had lost consciousness again, and the sight of his bloodless face, deathly pallid save for the crimson splash on one cheek, almost unnerved her.
"Take him to the grey room, Portis," she said quietly. "And tell somebody to get Dr. Ruetter. He's staying at Mrs. Craven's. Please hurry." It was very hard to keep her voice calm, but she managed to accomplish it.
Finally, when she could think of nothing else to do, and to the very great amazement of everyone, she suddenly collapsed in a dead faint.
When she came to herself again, Dr. Ruetter was standing over her.