Part 32

"Your son's finished Gerard, Mr. Rose," he stated, monotonously explicit. "He slipped his temper and fired a wrench at Gerard for not giving him the road. It hit him, and we ran wild without a driver till we struck here. Ask him--he's in there with what's left of Gerard--why he's sent Dean where he ain't to be found, if I'm lying."

Mr. Rose released Rupert's shoulder, both men equally oblivious of the pain his grasp had inflicted on bruised flesh and muscle, and turned his gray face to the surrounding group in dumb quest of confirmation. Then, moving stiffly, he walked toward the house.

There was an authority in his bearing that gained him unopposed entrance. In the hall, nauseating with the ominous odor of antiseptics, he was met by one of the doctors.

"You can turn my house into a hospital," Mr. Rose said briefly. "I want Gerard taken there instead of to your places. You can have all the money you like."

The man looked at the card presented, his professional impassivity flickering, but shook his head.

"He would better not be moved at all, sir; at least, not to-day. He can be asked, if you wish."

"He is conscious, then?"

"Just about," he shrugged, reaching for the door. "Here, if you care to go in."

The room was glaring with light, the lace curtains were dragged wide apart from the windows and the shades rolled high. Idle now in the presence of more skilled attendants, but recognized as one who had earned the right to be there, Corrie stood near the foot of the improvised bed, leaning against the wall with his fair head slightly bent. At the sound of the door he turned that way, as Mr. Rose stopped on the threshold.

The snapping latch, or some more subtle influence, aroused someone else. Slowly Gerard's heavy lashes lifted, and he saw father and son looking at each other across the parlor strewn with the tragic litter of the last hour's work. There was nothing to interrupt the triple regard; it endured long, with steadfast intensity.

In a corner two surgeons were holding a subdued consultation, a third was busied at the marble table, the attention of all fully engaged.

"Put a pillow under my head, someone," suddenly bade the shadow of Allan Gerard's voice, across the hush. "And give me a cigarette."

There was a startled flurry in the room. Familiar enough with the last request from his masculine patients, the man at the table took a case from his own pocket and, lighting one of the cigarettes, stooped over the bed.

"Keep your grip on yourself," he approved brusquely. "But don't move."

It was in his left hand that Gerard took the tiny narcotic, his right arm and shoulder were a mere bulk of splints and linen bandages.

"Thanks," his difficult voice spoke again. "Now open that door and let everyone in--I want to talk to them."

"Mr. Gerard!"

His clear eyes, dark with suffering but absolutely collected, met the surgeon's.

"I've got to talk to them, doctor, and I may be out of my head or in a box, to-morrow. Let them in--the reporters, I mean."

The listeners gazed at each other, a shock ran through the group. Every man there knew Rupert's story of the accident, every man guessed that it was Gerard's own version that was to be given now. Someone offered Mr. Rose one of the horse-hair chairs, during the moment of rearrangement before the youngest of the doctors left the room. Only Corrie remained unmoved, not changing his position or looking at Gerard. There was a certain dignity of utter quiescence in his pose that comprehended neither defiance nor submission, but a strange, aloof patience.

The representative reporters from the city journals filed in, avidly expectant. With them came two officials of the racing association, and a metallic-eyed man whose plain clothes were contradicted by the badge visible under his coat. There was silent orderliness; the grim significance of the room, the presence of the watchful surgeons, the central figure of the driver so well known to all of those who entered, were subduing to the least sensitive. Nor was the effect less hushing because of that other driver who attended in the background, the strong sunlight shining on his glistening pink garb and still face.

Gerard let fall the hand holding the cigarette, when the company was complete, and slowly turned his brown head on the pillow to face them.

"You newspaper men have been first-class to me for a good while; it's my chance to reciprocate now," he asserted. "Well, I'll give what copy I can. I know you want it, boys--you've often been after me for less."

The familiar gayety rippled above his aching effort of speech, his will locked to composure each rebellious line of expression. No one stirred in the room.

"I wish it were a better yarn. But when two tires blow out at the same time, while a car's turning----"

This time, there was a general sigh of quick-drawn breath. Mr. Rose stood up.

"When two tires let go, at ninety miles an hour, there's apt to be a wreck. I----" his lashes fell wearily. "I couldn't hold the machine to the road. The shock broke my control--there's no one to blame but me----" The cigarette crumpled in his clenching fingers, his straight brows knotted.

"Gerard," burst forth the racing official, excitedly urgent in his suspense. "Your tires wrecked you? That's your last word? Gerard, if you can speak, do!"