"I have no doubt that that is his name. I did not inquire. It did not
interest me. My name is Mrs. Lora Delane Porter. This man of yours has
just run into my automobile."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I cannot put it more lucidly. I was driving along the street when this
weak-minded person flung himself in front of my car. He is out there
now. Kindly come and help him in."

"Is he hurt?"

"More frightened than hurt. I have examined him. His left knee appears
to be slightly wrenched."

Kirk Winfield passed a hand over his left forehead and followed her.
Like George, he found Mrs. Porter a trifle overwhelming.

Out in the street George Pennicut, now the centre of quite a
substantial section of the Four Million, was causing a granite-faced
policeman to think that the age of miracles had returned by informing
him that the accident had been his fault and no other's. He greeted the
relief-party with a wan grin.

"Just broke my leg, sir," he announced to Kirk.

"You have done nothing of the sort," said Mrs. Porter. "You have
wrenched your knee very slightly. Have you explained to the policeman
that it was entirely your fault?"