“There is a dew falling.  It will be cold when the morning breaks.  And La Grave is very near.  It is better to go,” said Peter.

The question was still in debate when above the roar of the river there came to their ears a faint throbbing sound from across the valley.  It grew louder and suddenly two blinding lights flashed along the hill-side opposite.

“A motor-car,” said Shere Ali, and as he spoke the lights ceased to travel.

“It’s stopping at the hotel,” said Linforth carelessly.

“No,” said Peter.  “It has not reached the hotel.  Look, not by a hundred yards.  It has broken down.”

Linforth discussed the point at length, not because he was at all interested at the moment in the movements of that or of any other motor-car, but because he wished to stay where he was.  Peter, however, was obdurate.  It was his pride to get his patron indoors each night.

“Let us go on,” he said, and Linforth wearily rose to his feet.

“We are making a big mistake,” he grumbled, and he spoke with more truth than he was aware.

They reached the hotel at eleven, ordered their supper and bathed.  It was half-past eleven before Linforth and Shere Ali entered the long dining-room, and they found another party already supping there.  Linforth heard himself greeted by name, and turned in surprise.  It was a party of four—­two ladies and two men.  One of the men had called to him, an elderly man with a bald forehead, a grizzled moustache, and a shrewd kindly face.

“I remember you, though you can’t say as much of me,” he said.  “I came down to Chatham a year ago and dined at your mess as the guest of your Colonel.”

Linforth came forward with a smile of recognition.

“I beg your pardon for not recognising you at once.  I remember you, of course, quite well,” he said.

“Who am I, then?”

“Sir John Casson, late Lieutenant-Governor of the United Provinces,” said Linforth promptly.

“And now nothing but a bore at my club,” replied Sir John cheerfully.  “We were motoring through to Grenoble, but the car has broken down.  You are mountain-climbing, I suppose.  Phyllis,” and he turned to the younger of the two ladies, “this is Mr. Linforth of the Royal Engineers.  My daughter, Linforth!” He introduced the second lady.

“Mrs. Oliver,” he said, and Linforth turning, saw that the eyes of Mrs. Oliver were already fixed upon him.  He returned the look, and his eyes frankly showed her that he thought her beautiful.

“And what are you going to do with yourself?” said Sir John.

“Go to the country from which you have just come, as soon as I can,” said Linforth with a smile.  At this moment the fourth of the party, a stout, red-faced, plethoric gentleman, broke in.

“India!” he exclaimed indignantly.  “Bless my soul, what on earth sends all you young fellows racing out to India?  A great mistake!  I once went to India myself—­to shoot a tiger.  I stayed there for months and never saw one.  Not a tiger, sir!”