It was to the Brenva ascent of Mont Blanc that Garratt Skinner was leading Walter Hine!  The thought flashed upon Chayne swift as an inspiration and as convincing.  Chayne was sure.  The Brenva route!  It was to this climb Garratt Skinner’s thoughts had perpetually recurred during that one summer afternoon in the garden in Dorsetshire, when he had forgotten his secrecy and spoken even with his enemy of the one passion they had in common.  Chayne worked out the dates and they fitted in with his belief.  Two days ago Garratt Skinner started to cross the Col du Geant.  He would sleep very likely in the hut on the Col, and go down the next morning to Courmayeur and make his arrangements for the Brenva climb.  On the third day, to-day, he would set out with Walter Hine and sleep at the gite on the rocks in the bay to the right of the great ice-fall of the Brenva glacier.  To-morrow he would ascend the buttress, traverse the ice-ridge with Walter Hine—­perhaps—­yes, only perhaps—­and at that thought Chayne’s heart stood still.  And even if he did, there were the hanging ice-cliffs above, and yet another day would pass before any alarm at his absence would be felt.  Surely, it would be the Brenva route!

Garratt Skinner himself would run great risk upon this hazardous expedition—­that was true.  But Chayne knew enough of the man to be assured that he would not hesitate on that account.  The very audacity of the exploit marked it out as Gabriel Strood’s.  Moreover, there would be no other party on the Brenva ridge to spy upon his actions.  There was just one fact so far as Chayne could judge to discredit his inspiration—­the inconvenient presence of a guide.

“Do you know a guide Delouvain, Michel?”

“Indeed, yes!  A good name, monsieur, and borne by a man worthy of it.”

“So I thought,” said Chayne.  “Pierre Delouvain,” and Michel laughed scornfully and waved the name away.

“Pierre!  No, indeed!” he cried.  “Monsieur, never engage Pierre Delouvain for your guide.  I speak solemnly.  Joseph—­yes, and whenever you can secure him.  I thought you spoke of him.  But Pierre, he is a cousin who lives upon Joseph’s name, a worthless fellow, a drunkard.  Monsieur, never trust yourself or any one whom you hold dear with Pierre Delouvain!”

Chayne’s last doubt was dispelled.  Garratt Skinner had laid his plans for the Brenva route.  Somewhere on that long and difficult climb the accident was to take place.  The very choice of a guide was in itself a confirmation of Chayne’s fears.  It was a piece of subtlety altogether in keeping with Garratt Skinner.  He had taken a bad and untrustworthy guide on one of the most difficult expeditions in the range of Mont Blanc.  Why, he would be asked?  And the answer was ready.  He had confused Pierre Delouvain with Joseph, his cousin, as no doubt many another man had done before.  Did not Pierre live on that very confusion?  The answer was not capable of refutation.