By this, we'd come out on the open highway, better, but not too clear, either. There followed seven minutes of ripping through the night, of people who ran yelling to get out of our way and hurled curses behind us, only a few cars meeting us like the whirling of comets in terrifying glimpses as we shot past; and, at last, the country club; strings of gay lanterns, winking ruby tail-lights of machines parked in front of it, the glare from its windows, and the strains of the orchestra in its ballroom, playing "On the Beach at Waikiki." When she heard it, Barbara thanked God with, "We're in time!" I took that machine up to the front steps over space never intended for automobiles, at a pace not proper for lawns or even roads, and only halted when I was half across the walk. Bill rolled from the tonneau door and stood by it. I jumped down and came around. "Lift me out, and put me on my feet," Barbara ordered. "Help me--one on each side. I can walk. I must!" We crossed a deserted porch; the evening's opening event--the grand march--had drawn every one, servants and all, inside. So far, without challenge, meeting no one. We had the place to ourselves till we stood, the three of us alone, before the upper entrance of the assembly room. In there, the last strains of Waikiki died away. I looked to Barbara. She was in command. Her words back there in town had settled that for me. "What do we do now?" I asked. White as the linen she wore, the girl's face shone with some inner fire of passionate resolution. I saw this, too, in the determined, almost desperate energy with which she held herself erect, one clenched hand pressed hard against her side. "Take me in there, Mr. Boyne. And you," to Capehart, "find a man you can trust to guard each door of the ballroom." "What you say goes." Big Bill wheeled like a well trained cart-horse and had taken a step or two, when she called after him, "Arrest any one who attempts to enter." "Arrest 'em if they try to git in," Capehart repeated stoically. "Sure. That goes." But I interrupted, "You mean if they try to get out." At that she gave me a look. No time or breath to waste. Bill, unquestioning, had hurried to his part of the work. I took up mine with, "Forgive me, Barbara. I'll not make that mistake again"; slipped my arm under hers to support her; dragged open the big doors; shoved past the hallman there; and we stepped into the many-colored, moving brilliance of the ballroom. CHAPTER XXVIII THE COUNTRY CLUB BALL