e," the porter told him.
"I came across them before I saw you. They're both knocked sort of
sillylike, but they aren't much hurt. The guard's stone dead."

"Where are we?"

"A few hundred yards from Wymondham. Let's have a look for the other
gentleman."

Mr. John P. Dunster was lying quite still, his right leg doubled up, and
a huge block of telegraph post, which the saloon had carried with it
in its fall, still pressing against his forehead. He groaned as they
dragged him out and laid him down upon a cushion in the shelter of the
wreckage.

"He's alive all right," the porter remarked. "There's a doctor on the
way. Let's cover him up quick and wait."

"Can't we carry him to shelter of some sort?" Gerald proposed.

The man shook his head. Speech of any sort was difficult. Even with his
lips close to the other's ears, he had almost to shout.

"Couldn't be done," he replied. "It's all one can do to walk alone when
you get out in the middle of the field, away from the shelter of the
embankment here. There's bits of trees flying all down the lane. Never
was such a night! Folks is fair afraid of the morning to see what's
happened. There's a mill blown right over on its side in the next field,
and the man in charge of it lying dead. This poor chap's bad enough."

Gerald, on all fours, had crept back into the compartment. The bottle
of wine was smashed into atoms. He came out, dragging the small
dressing-case which his companion had kept on the table before him. One
side of it was dented in, but the lock, which was of great strength,
still held.

"Perhaps there's a flask somewhere in this dressing-case," Gerald said.
"Lend me a knife."

Strong though it had been, the lock was already almost torn out from its
foundation. They forced the spring and opened it. The porter turned his
lantern on the widening space. Just as Gerald was raising the lid very
slowly to save the contents from being scattered by the wind, the man
turned his head to answer an approaching hail. Gerald raised the lid a
little higher and suddenly closed it with a bang.

"There's folks coming at last!" the porter exclaimed, turning around
excitedly. "They've been a time and no mistake. The village isn't a
quarter of a mile away. Did you find a flask, sir?"

Gerald made no answer. The dressing-case once more was closed, and his
hand pressed upon the lid. The porter turned the light upon his face and
whistled softly.

"You're about done yourself,