“As gently as you can,” said the doctor to Helena.  “Are your springs good?”

“The car’s first-rate, and I’ll do my best.  I’ve been driving for nearly a year, up to the other day.”  She pointed to her badge.  The doctor nodded approval, and he and the nurse took their places.  Then Buntingford jumped into the car, beside Helena.

“I’ll show you the way.  It won’t take long.”

In a few minutes, the car was in country lanes, and all the smoking tumult of the town had vanished from sight and hearing.  It had become already indeed almost incredible, in the glow of the May afternoon, and amid the hawthorn white of the hedges, the chattering birds that fled before them, the marvellous green of the fields.  Helena drove with the deftness of a practised hand, avoiding ruts, going softly over rough places.

“Good!” said Buntingford to her more than once—­“that was excellent!”

But the suffering of the men behind overshadowed everything else, and it was with a big breath of relief that Buntingford at last perceived the walls of the county hospital rising out of a group of trees in front of them.  Helena brought the car gently to a standstill, and, jumping out, was ready to help as a V. A. D. in the moving of the men.  The hospital had been warned by telephone, and all preparations had been made.  When the two unconscious men were safely in bed, the Dansworth doctor turned warmly to Helena: 

“I don’t know what we should have done without you, Miss Pitstone!  But you look awfully tired.  I hope you’ll go home at once, and rest.”

“I’m going to take her home—­at once,” said Buntingford.  “We can’t do anything more, can we?”

“Nothing.  And here’s the matron with a message.”

The message was from the mayor of Dansworth.  “Situation well in hand.  No more trouble feared.  Best thanks.”

“All right!” said Buntingford.  He turned smiling to Helena.  “Now we’ll go home and get some dinner!”

The Dansworth doctor and nurse remained behind.  Once more Buntingford got into the car beside his ward.

“What an ass I am!” he said, in disgust—­“not to be able to drive the car.  But I should probably kill you and myself.”

Helena laughed at him, a new sweetness in the sound, and they started.

Presently Buntingford said gently: 

“I want to thank you,—­for one thing especially—­for having waited so patiently—­while we got the thing under.”

“I wasn’t patient at all!  I wanted desperately to be in it!”

“All the more credit!  It would have been a terrible anxiety if you had been there.  A policeman was killed just beside us.  There was a man with a revolver running amuck.  He just missed French by a hair-breadth.”

Helena exclaimed in horror.

“You see—­one puts the best face on it—­but it might have been a terrible business.  But what I shall always remember most—­is your part in it”