"Thanks," his difficult voice spoke again. "Now open that door and let
everyone in--I want to talk to them."

"Mr. Gerard!"

His clear eyes, dark with suffering but absolutely collected, met the
surgeon's.

"I've got to talk to them, doctor, and I may be out of my head or in a
box, to-morrow. Let them in--the reporters, I mean."

The listeners gazed at each other, a shock ran through the group. Every
man there knew Rupert's story of the accident, every man guessed that it
was Gerard's own version that was to be given now. Someone offered Mr.
Rose one of the horse-hair chairs, during the moment of rearrangement
before the youngest of the doctors left the room. Only Corrie remained
unmoved, not changing his position or looking at Gerard. There was a
certain dignity of utter quiescence in his pose that comprehended
neither defiance nor submission, but a strange, aloof patience.

The representative reporters from the city journals filed in, avidly
expectant. With them came two officials of the racing association, and a
metallic-eyed man whose plain clothes were contradicted by the badge
visible under his coat. There was silent orderliness; the grim
significance of the room, the presence of the watchful surgeons, the
central figure of the driver so well known to all of those who entered,
were subduing to the least sensitive. Nor was the effect less hushing
because of that other driver who attended in the background, the strong
sunlight shining on his glistening pink garb and still face.

Gerard let fall the hand holding the cigarette, when the company was
complete, and slowly turned his brown head on the pillow to face them.

"You newspaper men have been first-class to me for a good while; it's my
chance to reciprocate now," he asserted. "Well, I'll give what copy I
can. I know you want it, boys--you've often been after me for less."

The familiar gayety rippled above his aching effort of speech, his will
locked to composure each rebellious line of expression. No one stirred
in the room.

"I wish it were a better yarn. But when two tires blow out at the same
time, while a car's turning----"

This time, there was a general sigh of quick-drawn breath. Mr. Rose
stood up.

"When two tires let go, at ninety miles an hour, there's apt to be a
wreck. I----" his lashes fell wearily. "I couldn't hold the machine to
the road. The shock broke my control--there's no one to blame but
me----" The cigarette crumpled in his