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.