There was something grewsome about that limp form with its bandaged head, swaying between McGlory’s unsteady knees and mumbling villainous revelations.
For a while Levitt was silent, and the runabout glided through the outskirts of Hempstead and Matt inquired the way to the nearest doctor.
The car continued to remain on its good behavior, and carried its passengers steadily and safely to the walk in front of the doctor’s office. Some bystanders helped carry Levitt in, and he was laid on a couch, very white and weak and continuing to mumble his delirious disclosures.
“What’s the trouble with him?” inquired the doctor.
“Automobile accident,” answered Matt briefly.
“They’re always happening,” commented the medical man grimly. “Who is he?”
“Hannibal J. Levitt. We’ll have to leave him in your care, doctor. My friend and I have got to hurry on to New York to attend a meeting at eight o’clock to-night.”
The doctor, busily examining Levitt, turned up a suspicious face.
“You’ll have to tell me a little bit more about this man before you go,” said he. “He may have been hurt in an automobile accident, or he may have been hit on the head with a sand bag.”