unconscious man, and dragged him, upright, holding him by main
strength.

"He's drunk, all right, Miss," the chauffeur remarked with a sniff
of disgust.

That he had been drinking was evident enough to Miss Erith now. She
picked up his hat; a straggling yellow light from the ice-bound
lamps fell on McKay's battered features.

"Get him into the car," she said, "he'll die out here in this cold."

The big chauffeur half-carried, half-dragged the inanimate man to
the car and lifted him in. Miss Erith followed.

"The Samaritan Hospital--that's the nearest," she said hastily.
"Drive as fast as you can, Wayland."

McKay had slid to the floor of the coupe; Miss Erith turned on the
ceiling light, drew the fur robe around him, and lifted his head to
her knees, holding it there supported between her gloved hands.

The light fell full on his bruised visage, on the crisp brown hair
dusted with snow, which lay so lightly on his temples, making him
seem very frail and boyish in his deathly pallor.

His breathing grew heavier, more laboured; the coupe reeked with the
stench of alcohol; and Miss Erith, feeling almost faint, opened the
window a little way, then wrapped the young man's head in the skirt
of her fur coat and covered his icy hands with her own.