Thomas certainly had "done it." Sylvia, at his first movement, had
slapped him in the face with no gentle tap. And Thomas, with only one
hand on the wheel, and too amazed to keep his wits about him, had allowed
the car to slide down the side of the road into the deep, muddy gutter,
straight in front of the Elliotts' house.

Late as it was, a light was snapped on in the entrance without delay.
Electricity had been installed here before any other place in the village
had been blessed with it, for the owners never missed a chance of seeing
anything, and Mrs. Elliott seemed to sleep with one eye and one ear open.
She appeared now in the doorway, dressed in a long, gray flannel
"wrapper," her hair securely fastened in metal clasps all about her head,
against the "crimps" for the next day.

"Who is it?" she cried sharply--"and what do you want?"

Of all persons in the world, this was the last one whom either Sylvia or
Thomas desired to see. Neither answered. Nothing dismayed, Mrs. Elliott
advanced down the walk. Her carpet-slippers flapped as she came.

"Come on, Joe," she called over her shoulder to her less intrepid spouse.
"Are you goin' to leave me alone to face these desperate drunkards,
lurchin' around in the dead of night, an' makin' the road unsafe for
doctors who might be out on some errand of mercy--they're the only
_respectable_ people who wouldn't be abed at this hour of the night. You
better get right to the telephone, an' notify Jack Weston. He ain't much
of a police officer, to be sure, but I guess he can deal with bums like
these--too stewed to answer me, even!" Then, as she drew nearer, she gave
a shriek that might well have been heard almost as far off as