“ Seven Dials … tell …”
“Yes,” said Bundle again. It was a name he was trying to get out—trying with all his failing strength. “Yes. Who am I to tell?”
“ Tell … Jimmy Thesiger … ” He got it out at last, and then, suddenly, his head fell back and his body went limp.
Bundle sat back on her heels, shivering from head to foot. She could never have imagined that anything so awful could have happened to her. He was dead—and she had killed him.
She tried to pull herself together. What must she do now? A doctor—that was her first thought. It was possible—just possible—that the man might only be unconscious, not dead. Her instinct cried out against the possibility, but she forced herself to act upon it. Somehow or other she must get him into the car and take him to the nearest doctors. It was a deserted stretch of country road and there was no one to help her.
Bundle, for all her slimness, was strong. She had muscles of whipcord. She brought the Hispano as close as possible, and then, exerting all her strength, she dragged and pulled the inanimate figure into it. It was a horrid business, and one that made her set her teeth, but at last she managed it.
Then she jumped into the driver’s seat and started off. A couple of miles brought her into a small town and on inquiry she was quickly directed to the doctor’s house.
Dr. Cassell, a kindly, middle-aged man, was startled to come into his surgery and find a girl there who was evidently on the verge of collapse.
Bundle spoke abruptly.
“I—I think I’ve killed a man. I ran over him. I brought him along in the car. He’s outside now. I—I was driving too fast, I suppose. I’ve always