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“Oh!” gasped Miss Forbes.

The young doctor heard her, and looking up, scowled reprovingly. Seeing she was a rarely beautiful young woman, he scowled less severely; and then deliberately and expertly, again slapped Mr. Jerry Gaylor on the cheek. He watched the white mark made by his hand upon the purple skin, until the blood struggled slowly back to it, and then rose.

He ignored every one but the police officer.

“There’s nothing the matter with HIM,” he said. “He’s dead drunk.”

The words came to Winthrop with such abrupt relief, bearing so tremendous a burden of gratitude, that his heart seemed to fail him. In his suddenly regained happiness, he unconsciously laughed.

“Are you sure?” he asked eagerly. “I thought I’d killed him.”

The surgeon looked at Winthrop coldly.

“When they’re like that,” he explained with authority, “you can’t hurt ’em if you throw them off the Times Building.”

He condescended to recognize the crowd. “You know where this man lives?”

Voices answered that Mr. Gaylor lived at the corner, over the saloon. The voices showed a lack of sympathy. Old man Gaylor dead was a novelty; old man Gaylor drunk was not.

The doctor’s prescription was simple and direct.

“Put him to bed till he sleeps it off,” he ordered; he swung himself to the step of the ambulance. “Let him out, Steve,” he called. There was the clang of a gong and the rattle of galloping hoofs.

The police officer approached Winthrop. “They tell me Jerry stepped in front of your car; that you wasn’t to blame. I’ll get their names and where they live. Jerry might try to hold you up for damages.”

“Thank you very much,” said Winthrop.

With several of Jerry’s friends, and the soiled person, who now seemed dissatisfied that Jerry was alive, Winthrop helped to carry him up one flight of stairs and drop him upon a bed.

“In case he needs anything,” said Winthrop, and gave several bills to the soiled person, upon whom immediately Gaylor’s other friends closed in. “And I’ll send my own doctor at once to attend to him.”

“You’d better,” said the soiled person morosely, “or, he’ll try to shake you down.”

The opinions as to what might be Mr. Gaylor’s next move seemed unanimous.

From the saloon below, Winthrop telephoned to the family doctor, and then rejoined Miss Forbes and the Police officer. The officer gave him the names of those citizens who had witnessed the accident, and in return received Winthrop’s card.

“Not that it will go any further,” said the officer reassuringly. “They’re all saying you acted all right and wanted to take him to Roosevelt. There’s many,” he added with sententious indignation, “that knock a man down, and then run away without waiting to find out if they’ve hurted ’em or killed ’em.”

The speech for both Winthrop and Miss Forbes was equally embarrassing.

“You don’t say?” exclaimed Winthrop nervously. He shook the policeman’s hand. The handclasp was apparently satisfactory to that official, for he murmured “Thank you,” and stuck something in the lining of his helmet. “Now, then!” Winthrop said briskly to Miss Forbes, “I think we have done all we can. And we’ll get away from this place a little faster than the law allows.”

Miss Forbes had seated herself in the car, and Winthrop was cranking up, when the same policeman, wearing an anxious countenance, touched him on the arm. “There is a gentleman here,” he said, “wants to speak to you.” He placed himself between the gentleman and Winthrop and whispered: “He’s ‘Izzy’ Schwab, he’s a Harlem police-court lawyer and a Tammany man. He’s after something, look out for him.”

Winthrop saw, smiling at him ingratiatingly, a slight, slim youth, with beady, rat-like eyes, a low forehead, and a Hebraic nose. He wondered how it had been possible for Jerry Gaylor to so quickly secure counsel. But Mr. Schwab at once undeceived him.