“Yes, ma’am.” 

 “Mr. Winfield will help you indoors.” 

 “Thank you, ma’am.” 

 She turned to Kirk. 

 “Now, Mr. Winfield.” 

 Kirk bent over the victim, gripped him, and lifted him like a baby. 

 “He’s got his,” observed one interested spectator. 

 “I should worry!” agreed another. “All broken up.” 

 “Nothing of the kind,” said Mrs. Porter severely. “The man is hardly hurt at all. Be more accurate in your remarks.” 

 She eyed the speaker sternly. He wilted. 

 “Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled sheepishly. 

 The policeman, with that lionlike courage which makes the New York constabulary what it is, endeavoured to assert himself at this point. 

 “Hey!” he boomed. 

 Mrs. Porter turned her gaze upon him, her cold, steely gaze. 

 “I beg your pardon?” 

 “This won’t do, ma’am. I’ve me report to make. How did this happen?” 

 “You have already been informed. The man ran into my automobile.” 

 “But——” 

 “I shall not charge him.” 

 She turned and followed Kirk. 

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