“Send for a doctor and an ambulance!” Mrs. Potter cried.
Several men rushed from the dining room and hurried toward the scene of the accident. One of the waiters sprang to a telephone and quickly called the nearest doctor. The room was abuzz with excited conversation.
“It was their own fault,” someone declared emphatically. “I saw it all from this window. Both cars were going at terrific speed.”
“Oh, I hope no one was killed,” Mrs. Willoughby murmured anxiously.
For a few minutes it seemed that everyone talked at once, relating what each had witnessed. The commotion died down as the manager of the tea room, an elderly, pleasant-faced woman, came up the path.
“It’s all right,” she informed the diners. “Fortunately, no one was seriously injured. Both cars were completely wrecked.”
“What a relief,” Mrs. Willoughby sighed, as she turned away from the window.
Nearly all of the diners went back to their tables and Mrs. Willoughby and her companion among them. As Mrs. Potter sank down into her chair, her eyes swept the table in amazement.
“Oh, Jane!” she cried in alarm. “Your bag! You picked it up, didn’t you?”
Mrs. Willoughby rushed to the table, her face expressing genuine horror.
“No, I thought you did!”
“I didn’t touch the bag. When I heard that terrible crash I forgot all about it.”
“It must be here somewhere. Look under the table.”