Naturally enough she made no answer.

“You despise him, Harriet, and you despise me.  But you do us no good by it.  We fools want some one to set us on our feet.  Suppose a really decent woman had set up Gino—­I believe Caroline Abbott might have done it—­mightn’t he have been another man?”

“Philip,” she interrupted, with an attempt at nonchalance, “do you happen to have those matches handy?  We might as well look at the baby again if you have.”

The first match blew out immediately.  So did the second.  He suggested that they should stop the carriage and borrow the lamp from the driver.

“Oh, I don’t want all that bother.  Try again.”

They entered the little wood as he tried to strike the third match.  At last it caught.  Harriet poised the umbrella rightly, and for a full quarter minute they contemplated the face that trembled in the light of the trembling flame.  Then there was a shout and a crash.  They were lying in the mud in darkness.  The carriage had overturned.

Philip was a good deal hurt.  He sat up and rocked himself to and fro, holding his arm.  He could just make out the outline of the carriage above him, and the outlines of the carriage cushions and of their luggage upon the grey road.  The accident had taken place in the wood, where it was even darker than in the open.

“Are you all right?” he managed to say.  Harriet was screaming, the horse was kicking, the driver was cursing some other man.

Harriet’s screams became coherent.  “The baby—­the baby—­it slipped—­it’s gone from my arms—­I stole it!”

“God help me!” said Philip.  A cold circle came round his mouth, and, he fainted.

When he recovered it was still the same confusion.  The horse was kicking, the baby had not been found, and Harriet still screamed like a maniac, “I stole it!  I stole it!  I stole it!  It slipped out of my arms!”

“Keep still!” he commanded the driver.  “Let no one move.  We may tread on it.  Keep still.”

For a moment they all obeyed him.  He began to crawl through the mud, touching first this, then that, grasping the cushions by mistake, listening for the faintest whisper that might guide him.  He tried to light a match, holding the box in his teeth and striking at it with the uninjured hand.  At last he succeeded, and the light fell upon the bundle which he was seeking.

It had rolled off the road into the wood a little way, and had fallen across a great rut.  So tiny it was that had it fallen lengthways it would have disappeared, and he might never have found it.

“I stole it!  I and the idiot—­no one was there.”  She burst out laughing.

He sat down and laid it on his knee.  Then he tried to cleanse the face from the mud and the rain and the tears.  His arm, he supposed, was broken, but he could still move it a little, and for the moment he forgot all pain.  He was listening—­not for a cry, but for the tick of a heart or the slightest tremor of breath.