“What's the name of this place here?” demanded the officer.

“Hasn't got any name.”

A pale, well-dressed Negro stepped near.

“It was a yellow car,” he said, “big yellow car. New.”

“See the accident?” asked the policeman.

“No, but the car passed me down the road, going faster'n forty. Going fifty, sixty.”

“Come here and let's have your name. Look out now. I want to get his name.”

Some words of this conversation must have reached Wilson swaying in the office door, for suddenly a new theme found voice among his gasping cries.