A glance at Royson's clothes told him enough, as he thought, to
appraise the value of the assistance given. And he had no idea that his
fair companion had really been in such grave danger. He believed that
the shattering of the pole against the lamp standard had stopped the
bolting horses, and that the tall young man now surveying him with a
measuring eye had merely succeeded in catching the reins.

Royson lifted his hat to the lady, who had alighted, and was daintily
gathering her skirts out of the mud.

"I am glad to have been able to help you, madam," he said. He would
have gone without another word had not von Kerber touched his arm.

"You have not taken my card," said the man imperiously.

Some mischievous impulse, born of the turbulent emotions momentarily
quelled by the flurry of the carriage accident, conquered Royson's
better instincts. Though the Baron, was tall, he towered above him. And
he hardly realized the harshness, the vexed contempt, of his muttered
reply:

"I don't want your charity, I want work."

At once he was conscious of his mistake. He had sunk voluntarily to the
level of the Vauxhall paraders. He had even stolen their thunder. A
twinge of self-denunciation drove the anger from his frowning eyes. And
the Baron again thought he read his man correctly.

"Even so," he said, in a low tone, "take my card. I can find you work,
of the right sort, for one who has brains and pluck, yes?"