Ward laid his hand on my shoulder.

"Do you know who it is?" he asked.

"Yes, of course," I answered.

When I could see again, I found that I was looking almost straight down
into the upturned face of Larrabee Harman, and I cannot better express
what this man had come to be, and what the degradation of his life had
written upon him, than by saying that the dreadful thing I looked upon
now was no more horrible a sight than the face I had seen, fresh from
the valet and smiling in ugly pride at the starers, as he passed the
terrace of Larue on the day before the Grand Prix.

We helped to carry him to the doctor's car, and to lift the dancer into
Ward's, and to get both of them out again at the hospital at Versailles,
where they were taken. Then, with no need to ask each other if we should
abandon our plan to breakfast in the country, we turned toward Paris,
and rolled along almost to the barriers in silence.

"Did it seem to you," said George finally, "that a man so frightfully
injured could have any chance of getting well?"

"No," I answered. "I thought he was dying as we carried him into the
hospital."

"So did I. The top of his head seemed all crushed in--Whew!" He broke
off, shivering, and wiped his brow. After a pause he added thoughtfully,
"It will be a great thing for Louise."