CHAPTER XXXII.
ON FINLAKE MOUNTAIN Frank Barrington was to tell wryly in the grillroom of that night-ride in the sleety wind through a polar world of ghostly, ice-hung trees.
Every flying rod of the sleazy road he knew was a peril.

Even the chains failed at times to grip.

For eight hours the whir of the motor and the tearing sound of the wind blared in his ears.

For eight hours he marveled at the silence and efficiency of the muffled driver beside him who had apparently said all he intended to say upon the ferry.

He drove even faster than Frank had anticipated; and he drove with more care, as if, defiantly, he feared the traps of an evil destiny to keep him from his goal.