surmised, his desire to stand well in her eyes that had prompted
the midnight journey. Yet who the assailant might be, neither Dr.
Mead nor the broken raving of Warrington seemed to afford even the
slightest clew. That he was a desperate character, without doubt
in desperate straits over something, required no great acumen to
deduce.

Toward morning in a fleeting moment of lucidity, Warrington had
mentioned Garrick's name in such a way that Dr. Mead had looked it
up in the telephone directory and then at the earliest moment had
called up.

"Exactly the right thing," reassured Garrick. "Can't you think of
anything else that would identify the driver of that other car?"

"Only that he was a wonderful driver, that fellow," pursued the
doctor, admiration getting the better of his horror now that the
thing was over. "I couldn't describe the car, except that it was a
big one and seemed to be of a foreign make. He was crowding
Warrington as much as he dared with safety to himself--and not a
light on his own car, too, remember."

Garrick's face was puckered in thought.

"And the most remarkable thing of all about it," added the doctor,
rising and going over to a white enameled cabinet in the corner of
his office, "was that wound from the pistol."

The doctor paused to emphasize the point he was about to make.
"Apparently it put Warrington out," he resumed. "And yet, after