THROUGH THE NIGHT
On—on through the blue dusk of the September evening.
Now that he found himself actually in the touring car that he had so
impetuously engaged, Jim Barrison found his chaotic thoughts settling
into some sort of approximate order, if not of repose. He began to
analyze himself and this strange ride through the night.
He knew that suddenly he had forgotten the habit and the prompting
of years; the caution that usually made him project himself into a
possible future and meet it intelligently; the restraint and sensible
skepticism which had always made him consider risks and appraise them,
even while being quite as willing to take them as any other brave man.
He knew that he had in a single moment forgotten all the training and
the custom of his mature lifetime, because a woman had asked him to
come to her!
A woman? That would not have been enough, he knew, in any other case.
He was as chivalrous and as plucky as most men—a gallant gentleman in
all ways; but his discretion would have aided his valor in any ordinary
enterprise. As it was—he had been deaf and blind to any and all
promptings save those that pounded in his ardent pulse. And all because
a woman had sent for him! A woman? Say, rather, the woman! The one
woman in the world who could so move him, change him, separate him from
himself!
For the first time, but with characteristic honesty and thoroughness,
Jim Barrison acknowledged to his own heart that he loved Grace
Templeton.
He loved her, and he was going to her. The fact that she wanted him was
enough. It was strange—some day when he was sane, perhaps, he would see
how strange.
The chauffeur slowed up and turned to say over his shoulder:
“I guess it’s here, sir. There’s a sign that says Fer—something, and
that’s a road house in there, all right! Shall I drive in, sir?”
“Yes; go ahead.”
The big car crept in slowly around the curving drive toward the low
row of not too brilliant lights, for this road house was set far back
from prying eyes. There were a few trees in front, too, which further
enhanced the illusion of privacy. Barrison could not help noticing
that, unlike most road houses, this one seemed bare of patrons for the
nonce. There was not another automobile to be seen anywhere about.
He had heard of Ferrati’s before. It was one of those discreet little
out-of-town places, far away from the main road, hidden by trees,
vines, and shrubbery, and known only to a certain selection among
the elect. Whatever its true character, it masqueraded as modestly
as a courtesan behind a cap and veil. Proper to the last degree was
Ferrati’s; any one could go there. The tone was scrupulously correct—if
you frequented its main rooms. And the authorities saw nothing wrong
with it. Ferrati himself saw to that!
But there were stories—Barrison had heard a few of them—which suggested
that the resort, like some people, had a side not generally known to
the public. It was even said that it was a headquarters for a certain
blackmailing concern much wanted by the police; that all manner of
underworld celebrities could be sure of a haven there in off hours, and
that the bartender was nearly as skillful at knock-out drops as he was
at mixed drinks.
How, Jim asked himself, had Grace Templeton ever got into these
surroundings? Of course he sensed something queer about it all, and he
could not help wondering despairingly whether that unquenchable thirst
for adventure to which she had borne witness had been the means of
bringing her inadvertently into such an unsavory neighborhood.
He did not dismiss the car, but told the man to wait, and, running
up the short flight of steps at the front door, asked the rather
seedy-looking maître d’hôtel, or whatever he was, for Miss Templeton.
The man did not seem to understand him, but a second individual, who
was clearly his superior in position, made his appearance, and greeted
Barrison politely and with some air of authority.
“Is your name Ferrati?”
“Giovanni Ferrati, if the signor pleases.” He bowed, but Barrison had
the impression that the man was watching him. He was dark and foreign
looking, with a face like a rat.
“The signor wished——”
“I am to meet Miss Templeton here,” said Barrison shortly.
The rat-faced one’s expression cleared from a dubious look to delighted
relief. So far as he was able, he beamed upon the newcomer.
“Ah, that is well! If the signor would come this way——”
Jim followed where he led, with an unaccountable sense of distrust and
discomfort gaining place in his breast. For the first time, a genuine
doubt assailed him. Suppose it were a trick, a trap? Nothing since he
had first entered this “joint,” as he savagely termed it to himself,
had put him in any way at his ease. And at last he was conscious of a
well-developed instinct of suspicion. It was not only what he had known
before—that Grace was in trouble; it was a conviction that the whole
situation was an impossible one—false, dangerous, utterly unlike what
he had been expecting. Suppose—he hardly dared to put his thoughts into
words. He only knew that he found his environment singularly menacing.
He could not tell what it was that was in the air, but it was something
wicked and deadly. He wished that he had waited long enough to verify
that telegram! If Grace Templeton had _not_ sent it——
“This way, signor, if you please!” said the rat-faced man called
Ferrati.
At the end of a dim and unsavory corridor, he turned the knob of a door.
“The lady awaits you, signor!” he said, with a remarkably unpleasant
smile.
The room within was highly lighted, as Jim Barrison could see, even
through the small space where it was held open by Ferrati. He walked in
promptly.
On the instant, the lights were switched out—at the very second of his
entrance. He could see nothing now; it was pitch dark.
Mingled with his rage was a perfectly human mental comment: “You idiot;
it serves you right!”
For of course he was in a trap—a nice, neat trap, such as any baby
might have walked into!
The door closed behind him quickly, and something straightway clicked.
He was locked into this mysterious room in this strange and murderous
resort, and the darkness about him was that of the grave.