For a moment Montague stood staring, as if turned to stone.  Then from the other side of the car came a moan, and he ran toward the sound.  A second man lay in the ditch, moving feebly.  Montague sprang to help him.

The man wore a heavy bearskin coat.  Montague lifted him, and saw that he was a very elderly person, with a cut across his forehead, and a face as white as chalk.  The other helped him to a position with his back against the bank, and he opened his eyes and groaned.

Montague knelt beside him, watching his breathing.  He had a sense of utter helplessness—­there was nothing he could think of to do, save to unbutton the man’s coat and keep wiping the blood from his face.

“Some whisky,” the stranger moaned.  Montague answered that he had none; but the other replied that there was some in the car.

The slope of the bank was such that Montague could crawl under, and find the compartment with the bottle in it.  The old man drank some, and a little colour came back to his face.  As the other watched him, it came to him that this face was familiar; but he could not place it.

“How many were there with you?” Montague asked; and the man answered, “Only one.”

Montague went over and made certain that the other man—­who was obviously the chauffeur—­was dead.  Then he hurried down the road, and dragged some brush out into the middle of it, where it could be seen from a distance by any other automobile that came along; after which he went back to the stranger, and bound his handkerchief about his forehead to stop the bleeding from the cut.

The old man’s lips were tightly set, as if he were suffering great pain.  “I’m done for!” he moaned, again and again.

“Where are you hurt?” Montague asked.

“I don’t know,” he gasped.  “But it’s finished me!  I know it—­it’s the last straw.”

Then he closed his eyes and lay back.  “Can’t you get a doctor?” he asked.

“There are no houses very near,” said Montague.  “But I can run—­”

“No, no!” the other interrupted, anxiously.  “Don’t leave me!  Some one will come.—­Oh, that fool of a chauffeur—­why couldn’t he go slow when I told him?  That’s always the way with them—­they’re always trying to show off.”

“The man is dead,” said Montague, quietly.

The other started upon his elbow.  “Dead!” ho gasped.

“Yes,” said Montague.  “He’s under the car.”

The old man’s eyes had started wild with fright; and he caught Montague by the arm.  “Dead!” he said.  “O my God—­and it might have been me!”

There was a moment’s pause.  The stranger caught his breath, and whispered again:  “I’m done for!  I can’t stand it! it’s too much!”

Montague had noticed when he lifted the man that he was very frail and slight of build.  Now he could feel that the hand that held his arm was trembling violently.  It occurred to him that perhaps the man was not really hurt, but that his nerves had been upset by the shock.