“How many were there with you?” Montague asked; and the man answered, “Only one.”
Montague went over and made certain that the other man—who was obviously the chauffeur—was dead. Then he hurried down the road, and dragged some brush out into the middle of it, where it could be seen from a distance by any other automobile that came along; after which he went back to the stranger, and bound his handkerchief about his forehead to stop the bleeding from the cut.
The old man’s lips were tightly set, as if he were suffering great pain. “I’m done for!” he moaned, again and again.
“Where are you hurt?” Montague asked.
“I don’t know,” he gasped. “But it’s finished me! I know it—it’s the last straw.”
Then he closed his eyes and lay back. “Can’t you get a doctor?” he asked.
“There are no houses very near,” said Montague. “But I can run—”
“No, no!” the other interrupted, anxiously. “Don’t leave me! Some one will come.—Oh, that fool of a chauffeur—why couldn’t he go slow when I told him? That’s always the way with them—they’re always trying to show off.”
“The man is dead,” said Montague, quietly.
The other started upon his elbow. “Dead!” he gasped.