“It is strange that you should have mentioned John Lattery’s death,” he said, slowly.

“Why?” asked Garratt Skinner, turning quietly toward his companion.  “I read of it in ‘The Times.’”

“Oh, yes.  No doubt it was described.  What I meant was this.  John Lattery was my great friend, and he was a distant kind of cousin to your friend Walter Hine, and indeed co-heir with him to Joseph Hine’s great fortune.  His death, I suppose, has doubled your friend’s inheritance.”

Garratt Skinner raised himself up on his elbow.  The announcement was really news to him.

“Is that so?” he asked.  “It is true, then.  The mountains hold death too in their recesses—­even on the clearest day—­yes, they hold death too!” And letting himself fall gently back upon his cushions, he remained for a while with a very thoughtful look upon his face.  Twice Chayne spoke to him, and twice he did not hear.  He lay absorbed.  It seemed that a new and engrossing idea had taken possession of his mind, and when he turned his eyes again to Chayne and spoke, he appeared to be speaking with reference to that idea rather than to any remarks of his companion.

“Did you ever ascend Mont Blanc by the Brenva route?” he asked.  “There’s a thin ridge of ice—­I read an account in Moore’s ’Journal’—­you have to straddle across the ridge with a leg hanging down either precipice.”

Chayne shook his head.

“Lattery and I meant to try it this summer.  The Dent du Requin as well.”

“Ah, that is one of the modern rock scrambles, isn’t it?  The last two or three hundred feet are the trouble, I believe.”

And so the talk went on and the comradeship grew.  But Chayne noticed that always Garratt Skinner came back to the great climbs of the earlier mountaineers, the Brenva ascent of Mont Blanc, the Col Dolent, the two points of the Aiguille du Dru and the Aiguille Verte.

“But you, too, have climbed,” Chayne cried at length.

“On winter nights by my fireside,” replied Garratt Skinner, with a smile.  “I have a lame leg which would hinder me.”

“Nevertheless, you left Miss Sylvia and myself behind when you led us over the hills to Dorchester.”

It was Walter Hine who interrupted.  He had come across the grass from behind, and neither of the two men had noticed his approach.  But the moment when he did interrupt marked a change in their demeanor.  The comradeship which had so quickly bloomed as quickly faded.  It was the flower of an idle moment.  Antagonism preceded and followed it.  Thus, one might imagine, might sentries at the outposts of opposing armies pile their arms for half an hour and gossip of their homes or their children, or of something dear to both of them and separate at the bugle sound.  Garratt Skinner swung himself out of his hammock.

“Where’s Sylvia, Wallie?”

“She went up to her room.”

Chayne waited for ten minutes, and for another ten, and still Sylvia did not appear.  She was avoiding him.  She could spend the afternoon with Walter Hine, but she must run to her room when he came upon the scene.  Jealousy flamed up in him.  Every now and then a whimsical smile of amusement showed upon Garratt Skinner’s face and broadened into a grin.  Chayne was looking a fool, and was quite conscious of it.  He rose abruptly from his chair.