Then, last of all, I looked where Quinby had advised me to look, and there sure enough, on the almost deserted terrace, were the couple whom I had come several hundred miles to put asunder.  Hitherto I had only realised the distasteful character of my task; now at a glance I had my first inkling of its difficulty; and there ended the premature satisfaction with which I had learnt that there was “something in” the rumour which had reached Catherine’s ears.

There was no moon, but the mountain stars were the brightest I have ever seen in Europe.  The mountains themselves stood back, as it were, darkling and unobtrusive; all that was left of the Matterhorn was a towering gap in the stars; and in the faint cold light stood my friends, somewhat close together, and I thought I saw the red tips of two cigarettes.  There was at least no mistaking the long loose limbs in the light overcoat.  And because a woman always looks relatively taller than a man, this woman looked nearly as tall as this lad.

“Bob Evers?  You may not remember me, but my name’s Clephane—­Duncan, you know!”

I felt the veriest scoundrel, and yet the words came out as smoothly as I have written them, as if to show me that I had been a potential scoundrel all my life.

“Duncan Clephane?  Why, of course I remember you.  I should think I did!  I say, though, you must have had a shocking time!”

Bob’s voice was quite quiet for all his astonishment, his manner a miracle, though it was too dark to read the face; and his right hand held tenderly to mine, as his eyes fell upon my sticks, while his left poised a steady cigarette.  And now I saw that there was only one red tip after all.

“I read your name in the visitors’ book,” said I, feeling too big a brute to acknowledge the boy’s solicitude for me.  “I—­I felt certain it must be you.”

“How splendid!” cried the great fellow in his easy, soft, unconscious voice, “By the way, may I introduce you to Mrs. Lascelles?  Captain Clephane’s one of our very oldest friends, just back from the Front, and precious nearly blown to bits!”

CHAPTER III

FIRST BLOOD

Mrs. Lascelles and I exchanged our bows.  For a dangerous woman there was a rather striking want of study in her attire.  Over the garment which I believe is called a “rain-coat,” the night being chilly, she had put on her golf-cape as well, and the effect was a little heterogeneous.  It also argued qualities other than those for which I was naturally on the watch.  Of the lady’s face I could see even less than of Bob’s, for the hood of the cape was upturned into a cowl, and even in Switzerland the stars are only stars.  But while I peered she let me hear her voice, and a very rich one it was—­almost deep in tone—­the voice of a woman who would sing contralto.

“Have you really been fighting?” she asked, in a way that was either put on, or else the expression of a more understanding sympathy than one usually provoked; for pity and admiration, and even a helpless woman’s envy, might all have been discovered by an ear less critical and more charitable than mine.