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. CHAPTER XXX THE WHISPER IN THE DARK Darkness is a very strange thing. It is probably as strong and mysterious an agent when it comes to transmuting—and to deceiving—as anything on this earth. Nothing known to man is the same in the dark as at another time, and under the light.