Upon that her thoughts flew to the Alps, to the evening in the Pavillon de Lognan, the climb upon the rocks and the glittering ice-slope, the perfect hour upon the sunlit top of the Aiguille d’Argentiere.  The memory of the mountains brought her consolation in her bad hour, as her friend had prophesied it would.  Her tears ceased to flow, she lived that day—­her one day—­over again, jealous of every minute.  After all that had been real, and more perfect than any dream.  Moreover, there had been with her through the day a man honest and loyal as any of her imagined company.  She began to take heart a little; she thought of the Col Dolent with its broad ribbon of ice set in the sheer black rocks, and always in shadow.  She thought of herself as going up some such hard, cold road in the shadow, and remembered that on the top of the Col one came out into sunlight and looked southward into Italy.  So comforted a little, she fell asleep.

It was some hours before she woke.  It was already day, and since she had raised her blinds before she had got into bed, the light streamed into the room.  She thought for a moment that it was the light which had waked her.  But as she lay she heard a murmur of voices, very low, and a sound of people moving stealthily.  She looked out of the window.  The streets were quite empty and silent.  In the houses on the opposite side the blinds were drawn; a gray clear light was spread over the town; the sun had not yet risen.  She looked at her watch.  It was five o’clock.  She listened again, gently opening her door for an inch or so.  She heard the low voices more clearly now.  Those who spoke were speaking almost in whispers.  She thought that thieves had broken in.  She hurried on a few clothes, cautiously opened her door wider, slipped through, and crept with a beating heart down the stairs.

Half way down the stairs she looked over the rail of the banister, turning her head toward the back part of the house whence the murmurs came.  At the end of the passage was the little room in which the round game of cards was played the night before.  The door stood open now, and she looked right into the room.

And this is what she saw: 

Wallie Hine was sitting at the table.  About him the carpet was strewn with crumpled pieces of paper.  There was quite a number of them littered around his chair.  He was writing, or rather, trying to write.  For Archie Parminter leaning over the back of the chair held his hand and guided it.  Captain Barstow stood looking intently on, but of her father there was no sign.  She could not see the whole room, however.  A good section of it was concealed from her.  Wallie Hine was leaning forward on the table, with his head so low and his arms so spread that she could not see in what book he was writing.  But apparently he did not write to the satisfaction of his companions.  In spite of Parminter’s care his pen spluttered.  Sylvia saw Archie look at Barstow, and she heard Barstow answer “No, that won’t do.”  Archie Parminter dropped Hine’s hand, tore a slip of paper out of the book, crumpled it, and threw it down with a gesture of anger on to the carpet.