accident?"

"Yes, yes, as soon as I can speak," was panted out. "I--I--ah--h--ah!"

The speaker lurched toward him, and he caught her, fainting, in his
arms. But her strong will mastered the weakness, and she struggled
free.

"Better now," she panted. "Doctor, we had heard of you, I came myself.
He is dying. Oh, faster--faster!" she cried, and leaning forward she
beat upon the front window, there was a quick movement on the part of
the driver, and the horses seemed to fly.

"It was like this. We were at dessert. Robert was examining a pistol.
It went off, and he is horribly wounded. Dr Chester, oh, for Heaven's
sake, save my poor boy's life!"

"With Heaven's help, madam, I will," said the doctor, earnestly, "if we
are not too late."

"Too late--too late? Oh no, no, no, we cannot be too late! Quicker!
Quicker! These horses seem to crawl. Oh, it is too horrible--too
horrible! I cannot bear it!"

By a quick, impulsive movement the speaker threw herself forward, to
sink upon her knees in the bottom of the brougham, pressing her hands to
her mouth, and resting her face upon them against the padded cushion by
the front window; while, feeling strangely moved, Chester leaned
slightly over her with his hands half raised, in the desire he dared not
gratify, to raise her to her seat and whisper gentle words of comfort.
At that time it did not occur to him that it seemed strange for a
gentleman--he must be a gentleman; everything suggested it--to be
handling a pistol at dessert. All he could think of was the terrible
suffering of his companion, and his attention was centred upon her as he
saw the agony she suffered, while as yet he could do nothing.

She sprang up as suddenly as she had thrown herself down, and her voice
and look thrilled him again as she said sharply--

"I can't pray: it is too horrible. Don't notice me; don't speak to me,
please, doctor. I am half mad."

She flung herself back in the corner and covered her face with her
hands, while, totally oblivious of the direction taken by the driver,
Chester sat back in his own place, gazing at his companion, and weaving
a romance.

It was some story of love, he told himself--love and jealousy--for the
woman at his side was beautiful enough to tempt a saint. That was it,
he was sure, and the distracted husband had attempted to or had
committed suicide.

"What is it to me?" he said to himself, fiercely, and he wondered now
that he should have b