“To what mountain have they gone?” Chayne asked.

“To no mountain to-day.  They cross the Col du Geant, monsieur, to Courmayeur.  But after that I do not know.”

“Oh, into Italy,” said Chayne, in relief.  So far there was no danger.  The Col du Geant, that great pass between France and Italy across the range of Mont Blanc, was almost a highway.  There would be too many parties abroad amongst its ice seracs on these days of summer for any deed which needed solitude and secrecy.

“When do you expect them back?”

“In five days, monsieur; not before.”  And at this reply Chayne’s fears were all renewed.  For clearly the expedition was not to end with the passage of the Col du Geant.  There was to be a sequel, perhaps some hazardous ascent, some expedition at all events which Garratt Skinner had not thought fit to name.

“They took guides, I suppose,” he said.

“One guide, monsieur, and a porter.  Monsieur need not fear.  For Monsieur Skinner is of an excellence prodigious.”

“My father!” exclaimed Sylvia, in surprise.  “I never knew.”

“What guide?” asked Chayne.

“Pierre Delouvain”; and so once again Chayne’s fears were allayed.  He turned to Sylvia.

“A good name, sweetheart.  I never climbed with him, but I know him by report.  A prudent man, as prudent as he is skilful.  He would run no risks.”

The name gave him indeed greater comfort than even his words expressed.  Delouvain’s mere presence would prevent the commission of any crime.  His great strength would not be needed to hinder it.  For he would be there, to bear witness afterward.  Chayne was freed from the dread which during the last two days had oppressed him.  Perhaps after all Sylvia was right and the plot was definitely abandoned.  Chayne knew very well that Garratt Skinner’s passion for the Alps was a deep and real one.  Perhaps it was that alone which had brought him back to Chamonix.  Perhaps one day in the train, traveling northward from Italy, he had looked from the window and seen the slopes of Monte Rosa white in the sun—­white with the look of white velvet—­and all the last twenty years had fallen from him like a cloak, and he had been drawn back as with chains to the high playground of his youth.  Chayne could very well understand that possibility, and eased of his fears he walked away with Sylvia back to the open square in the middle of the town.  Darkness had come, and both stopped with one accord and looked upward to the massive barrier of hills.  The rock peaks stood sharply up against the clear, dark sky, the snow-slopes glimmered faintly like a pale mist, and incredibly far, incredibly high, underneath a bright and dancing star, shone a dim and rounded whiteness, the snow-cap of Mont Blanc.

“A year ago,” said Sylvia, drawing a breath and bethinking her of the black shadows which during those twelve months had lain across her path.