After a moment the man lifted his head and, meeting her look, smiled.  “I’m all right,” he said, “only I’ve wrenched this knee; sprained it, I guess.  And my head feels like a drum.”

“Oh, I am—­glad”—­her voice fluctuated softly, but the sparkle broke in her eyes—­“that it isn’t worse.  Would you like a glass of ice-water from the train?  A porter is coming and the conductor, too.  I will ask for anything.”

He smiled again.  “You’ll get it, if you do.  But what I want most just now is a glass of that port.  Elizabeth,” and his glance moved to the other girl, “where did you put that hamper?”

Elizabeth, followed by the porter, hurried around to the other side of the automobile to find the basket, and Tisdale moved a few steps away, waiting to see if he could be of further service.

A passenger with a camera and an alert, inquiring face had come down from the day coach.  He wound the film key and focussed for a closer exposure, but no one noticed him.  At that moment all interest centered on the man who was hurt.  “Well,” said the conductor at last, having looked the group and the situation over, “what’s the trouble?”

“Looks like a broken axle, doesn’t it?  And possibly a broken leg.”  He groaned and repeated aggressively:  “A broken axle.  With the worst of Snoqualmie Pass before us, and not a garage or a repair shop within fifty miles.”

“You are in a fix, sure.  But this train will take you through the Pass to Ellensburg, and there ought to be a hospital and a garage there.  Or—­the westbound passenger, due at this siding in seven minutes”—­the conductor looked at his watch—­“could put you back in Seattle at eight-fifteen.”

“Make it the westbound; no hospital for me.  Telegraph for a drawing-room, conductor, and notify this station agent to ship the machine on the same train.  And, Elizabeth,” he paused to take the drinking-cup she had filled, “you look up a telephone, or if there isn’t a long distance, telegraph James.  Tell him to have a couple of doctors, Hillis and Norton, to meet the eight-fifteen; and to bring the limousine down with plenty of pillows and comforters.”  He drained the cup and dropped it into the open hamper.  “Now, porter,” he added, “if you hurry up a cocktail, the right sort, before that westbound gets here, it means a five to you.”

As these various messengers scurried away, the girl who remained picked up the cup and poured a draught of wine for the lady in the tonneau.  “I am so sorry, but it was the only way.  Do you think it is a sprain?” she asked.

“Yes.”  The older woman took the cup in her left hand.  She had a deep, carrying voice, and she added, looking at the injured wrist:  “It’s swelling frightfully, but it saved my face; I might have had just such a hideous wound as Frederic’s.  Isn’t it a relief to hear him talking so rationally?”

The girl nodded.  “He seems quite himself,” she said gravely.  But she turned to cover the mirth in her eyes; it suffused her face, her whole charming personality.  Then suddenly, at the moment the flow was highest, came the ebb.  Her glance met Tisdale’s clear, appraising look, and she stood silent and aloof.