The woman was in a great summer hotel where extravagances of all sorts

are in vogue, and it had been her latest game to call with her lute-like

voice over the phone to three of her men friends who had wooed her

the strongest, daring them all to come to her at once, promising to fly

with the one who reached her first, but if none reached her before

morning dawned she remained as she was and laughed at them all.

Laurence Shafton had closed with the challenge at once and given orders

for his car to be ready to start in ten minutes. From a southern city

about an equal distance from the lady, one Percy Emerson, of the

Wellington-Emersons, started about the same time, leaving a trail of

telegrams and phone messages to be sent after his departure. The third

man, Mortimer McMarter, a hot-headed, hot-blooded scot, had started with

the rest, for the lady knew her lovers well, and not one would refuse;

but he was lying dead at a wayside inn with his car a heap of litter

outside from having collided with a truck that was minding its own

business and giving plenty of room to any sane man. This one was not

sane. But of this happening not even the lady knew as yet, for Mortimer

McMarter was not one to leave tales behind him when he went out of

life, and the servants who had sent his messages were far away.

The clock in the car showed nearly twelve and the way was long ahead.

But he would make it before the dawn. He must. He stepped on the

accelerator and shot round a curve. A dizzy precipice yawned at his

side. He took another pull at the flask he carried and shot on wildly

through the night. Then suddenly he ground on his brakes, the machine

twisted and snarled like an angry beast and came to a stand almost into

the arms of a barricade across the road. The young man hurled out an

oath, and leaned forward to look, his eyes almost too blood-shot and

blurred to read: "DETOUR to Sabbath Valley!"

He laughed aloud. "Sabbath Valley!" He swore and laughed again, then

looked down the way the rude arrow pointed, "Well, I like that! Sabbath

Valley. That'll be a good joke to tell, but I'll make it yet or land in

hell--!" He started his car and twisted it round to the rougher road,

feeling the grind of the broken glass that strewed the way. Billy had

done his work thoroughly, and anticipated well what would happen. But

those tires were costly affairs. They did not yield to the first cut

that came, and the expensive car built for racing on roads as smooth as

glass bumped and jogged down into the ruts and started toward Sabbath

Valley, with the driver pulling again at his almost empty flask, and

swaying giddily in his seat. Half a mile farther down the mountain, the

car gave a gasp, like the flitting soul of a dying lion, and came with

sudden grinding breaks to a dead stop in the heart of a deep wood.




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