Resource in moments of crisis is largely a matter of preparedness, and a man, who, having opened his door in the expectation of seeing a ginger-haired, bow-legged, grinning George Pennicut, is confronted by a masterful woman with eyes like gimlets, may be excused for not guessing that her piercing stare is an expression of admiration and respect. 

 Mrs. Porter broke the silence. It was ever her way to come swiftly to the matter in hand. 

 “Mr. Kirk Winfield?” 

 “Yes.” 

 “Have you in your employment a red-haired, congenital idiot who ambles about New York in an absent-minded way, as if he were on a desert island? The man I refer to is a short, stout Englishman, clean-shaven, dressed in black.” 

 “That sounds like George Pennicut.” 

 “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?” 

 “Yes, ma’am.” 

 “That’s right. Always speak the truth.” 

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