She could not believe it. His face was so hilariously young, lighted up with such boyish laughter. To-night she had no fear of him; if he was reckless, so was she! "This is nothing!" he had said to her once, when he had driven her about the room at such a pace that she had halted, laughing, protesting that it was glorious, waiting for breath. "How would you like to go spinning along at eighty miles an hour? That's sensation!" [Illustration: A Fury impelled her] She had not understood his meaning, but, the idea once in her head, she returned to it. It seemed to her all at once that in her hand lay the final stroke that would wound Massingale as nothing else would wound, which would show him how little she cared for anything now--reputation, danger, or what might come after. "You like the feeling of eighty miles an hour?" she said to Lindaberry, the next time he came. "Adore it!" "Is your machine here?" "Yes." "Show me what it is like--eighty miles an hour!" "Do you mean it?" "Of course!" "You've got the nerve?" She laughed; it was not a question of courage. "Come on, then!" She nodded, and glanced about the room. Ida Summers was at the piano, clamoring for a certain dance, not five feet from Massingale. She went quickly, saying, in a voice that would carry where she intended: "Ida, I'm off for a lark. Don't be worried if I disappear!" "Heavens, Dodo, what are you going to do now?" said Ida, looking up startled. "Great fun! Mr. Lindaberry's going to show me what it feels like to go a mile a minute in the dark." To her surprise, she was instantly surrounded by those who had heard her remark--a group in violent protest. "You're mad!" "Lindaberry'll wreck the car!" "Don't you know his condition?" "Miss Baxter, it's suicide!" Massingale alone did not offer a word. She put them laughingly away with double-edged words: "Danger? So much the better! What do I care?" But she had considerable difficulty in freeing herself. When finally she escaped, laughing, and had made for the entrance, Lindaberry, too, was facing a storm of protest from those who had learned of his proposed escapade. "I say, Miss Baxter, I'm looked on as a slaughter-house champion here," he said, laughing. "No one particularly cares about my neck, but a good many do about yours! What do you say? Shall we give them the slip?" "I'm ready!" "Can't we put up a little bet on this?" he continued triumphantly. "It's now ten minutes before one. Yonkers and back, despite cops, punctures and accidents, in forty minutes! Who'll take me for a hundred, even at that?" A chorus of murmurs alone answered him: "Don't be a fool, Garry!" "Not I!" "You ought to be manacled!" "I'll make it two to one--five to one!" He stopped expectantly, shrugged his shoulders, and turned to Doré. "Miss Baxter, I give you my word of honor there's not the slightest risk. Still, it's up to you. Well?"