praises of his friend’s self-sacrifice.  Skinner had denied himself his own share of food, had bared his breast to the wind that he might give the warmth of his own body to keep his friend alive—­these instances lost nothing in the telling.  And they were true!  Chayne could not deny to Garratt Skinner a certain criminal grandeur.  He had placed Hine in no peril which he had not shared himself; he had taken him, a man fitted in neither experience nor health, on an expedition where inexperience or weakness on the part of one was likely to prove fatal to all.  There was, moreover, one incident, not contemplated by Garratt Skinner in his plan, which made his position absolutely secure.  He had actually saved Walter Hine’s life on the rocky path of the Mont de la Brenva.  There was no doubt of it.  He had reached out his hand and saved him.  Chayne made much of this incident to his wife.

“I was wrong you see, Sylvia,” he argued.  “For your father could have let him fall, and did not.  I have been unjust to him, and to you, for you have been troubled.”

But Sylvia shook her head.

“You were not wrong,” she answered.  “It is only because you are very kind that you want me to believe it.  But I see the truth quite clearly”; and she smiled at him.  “If you wanted me to believe, you should never have told me of the law, a year ago in the Chalet de Lognan.  My father obeyed the law—­that was all.  You know it as well as I. He had no time to think; he acted upon the instinct of the moment; he could not do otherwise.  Had there been time to think, would he have reached out his hand?  We both know that he would not.  But he obeyed the law.  What he knew, that he did, obeying the law upon the moment.  He could save, and knowing it he did save, even against his will.”

Chayne did not argue the point.  Sylvia saw the truth too clearly.

“Walter Hine is getting well,” he said.  “Your father is still at another hotel in Courmayeur.  There’s the future to be considered.”

“Yes,” she said, and she waited.

“I have asked your father to come over to-night after dinner,” said Chayne.

And into their private sitting-room Garratt Skinner entered at eight o’clock that evening.  It was the first time that Sylvia had seen him since she had learned the whole truth, and she found the occasion one of trial.  But Garratt Skinner carried it off.

There was nothing of the penitent in his manner, but on the other hand he no longer affected the manner of a pained and loving parent.  He greeted her from the door, and congratulated her quietly and simply upon her marriage.  Then he turned to Chayne.

“You wished to speak to me?  I am at your service.”

“Yes,” replied Chayne.  “We—­and I speak for Sylvia—­we wish to suggest to you that your acquaintanceship with Walter Hine should end altogether—­that it should already have ended.”

“Really!” said Garratt Skinner, with an air of surprise.  “Captain Chayne, the laws of England, revolutionary as they have no doubt become to old-fashioned people like myself, have not yet placed fathers under the guardianship of their sons-in-law.  I cannot accept your suggestion.”