It was just as he was crossing Powers that a motor car whirled around the corner and down upon a man descending from a street car. The chauffeur honked wildly and rammed the brakes home. Simultaneously James leaped, flinging his weight upon the man standing dazed in the path of the automobile. The two went down together, and for a moment Farnum knew only a crash of the senses.
He was helped to his feet. Voices, distant and detached, asked whether he was hurt. Blood trickled into his eyes from a cut in the head. It came to him oddly enough that his story about the motor car accident would now be true.
A slender figure in gray slipped swiftly past him and knelt beside the still shape lying on the asphalt.
“Bring water, Roberts!”
James knew that clear, sweet voice. It could belong only to Alice Frome.
“Are you much hurt, Mr. Farnum?”
“No, I think not—a cut over my eye and a few bruises.”
“I'm so glad. But this poor old man—I'm afraid he's badly hurt.”
“Was he run over?”
“No. You saved him from that. You don't know him, do you?”