likely to understand.

With a groan of relief the man who had been picked up sank back
amongst the cushioned seats, carefully almost tenderly, aided by
the chauffeur. Eagerly he thrust his hand into one of the leather
pockets and drew out a flask of brandy. The rush of cold air, as
the car swung round and started off, was like new life to him. He
closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they had come to a
standstill underneath a red lamp.

"The doctor's!" he muttered to himself, and, staggering out, rang
the bell.

Dr. Spencer Whiles had had a somewhat dreary day, and was
thoroughly enjoying a late rubber of bridge with three of his
most agreeable neighbors. A summons into the consulting room,
however, was so unexpected a thing that he did not hesitate for a
moment to obey it, without even waiting to complete a deal. When
he entered the apartment, he saw a slim but determined-looking
young man, whose clothes were covered with dust, and who,
although he sat with folded arms and grim face, was very nearly
in a state of collapse.

"You seem to have met with an accident," the doctor remarked.
"How did it happen?"

"I have been run over by a motor car," his patient said, speaking
slowly and with something singularly agreeable in his voice
notwithstanding its slight accent of pain. "Can you patch me up
till I get to London?"