“I could climb a little,” said I, making up my mind.  “It’s within the meaning of the act—­it would do me good.  Which way will you take me, Mrs. Lascelles?”

Mrs. Lascelles looked up quickly, surprised at a boldness on which I was already complimenting myself.  But it is the only way with a bold woman.

“Did I say I would take you at all, Captain Clephane?”

“No, but I very much hope you will.”

And our eyes met as fairly as they had done by matchlight the night before.

“Then I will,” said Mrs. Lascelles, “because I want to speak to you.”

CHAPTER V

A MARKED WOMAN

We had come farther than was wise without a rest, but all the seats on the way were in full view of the hotel, and I had been irritated by divers looks and whisperings as we traversed the always crowded terrace.  Bob Evers, no doubt, would have turned a deaf ear and a blind eye to them.  I myself could pretend to do so, but pretence was evidently one of my strong points.  I had not Bob’s fine natural regardlessness, for all my seniority and presumably superior knowledge of the world.

So we had climbed the zigzags to the right of the Riffelberg and followed the footpath overlooking the glacier, in the silence enjoined by single file, but at last we were seated on the hillside, a trifle beyond that emerald patch which some humourist has christened the Cricket-ground.  Beneath us were the serracs of the Gorner Glacier, teased and tousled like a fringe of frozen breakers.  Beyond the serracs was the main stream of comparatively smooth ice, with its mourning band of moraine, and beyond that the mammoth sweep and curve of the Theodule where these glaciers join.  Peak after peak of dazzling snow dwindled away to the left.  Only the gaunt Riffelhorn reared a brown head against the blue.  And there we sat, Mrs. Lascelles and I, with all this before us and a rock behind, while I wondered what my companion meant to say, and how she would begin.

I had not to wonder long.

“You were very good to me last night, Captain Clephane.”

There was evidently no beating about the bush for Mrs. Lascelles.  I thoroughly approved, but was nevertheless somewhat embarrassed for the moment.

“I—­really I don’t know how, Mrs. Lascelles!”

“Oh, yes, you do, Captain Clephane; you recognised me at a glance, as I did you.”

“I certainly thought I did,” said I, poking about with the ferrule of one of my sticks.

“You know you did.”

“You are making me know it.”

“Captain Clephane, you knew it all along; but we won’t argue that point.  I am not going to deny my identity.  It is very good of you to give me the chance, if rather unnecessary.  I am not a criminal.  Still you could have made me feel like one, last night, and heaps of men would have done so, either for the fun of it or from want of tact.”