He was picked up from amongst the wreckage of a broken motor on the road to Versailles last night, and we have information that a lady was with him only a few minutes before the accident occurred. The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. “No, no,” she cried. Automatically, she glanced at the slight red graze left on her neck that marked the point where Gerald’s sword had nicked her. Go away now, there’s a good lad. He was ruffled, and his ears were red, no doubt from some adjacent controversy. "Take him home, Saunders," said Sir Rowland, resigning his faulty steed to the attendant's care, "I shall not require you further.
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