It was to the old climbs that Garratt Skinner’s conversation perpetually recurred—­the Aiguille Verte, the Grand and the Petit Dru and the traverse between them, the Col Dolent, the Grandes Jorasses and the Brenva route—­yes, above all, the Brenva route up Mont Blanc.  Moreover, how in the world should he know that those slabs of black granite on the top of the Grepon were veined with red—­splashed with red as he described them?  Unless he had ascended them, or the Aiguille des Charmoz opposite—­how should he know?  The philosophy of his guide Michel Revailloud flashed across Chayne’s mind.  “One needs some one with whom to exchange one’s memories.”

Had Garratt Skinner felt that need and felt it with so much compulsion that he must satisfy it in spite of himself?  Yet why should he practise concealment at all?  There certainly had been concealment.  Chayne remembered how more than once Garratt Skinner had checked himself before at last he had yielded.  It was in spite of himself that he had spoken.  And then suddenly as the train drew up at Vauxhall Station for the tickets to be collected, Chayne started up in his seat.  On the rocks of the Argentiere, beside the great gully, as they descended to the glacier, Sylvia’s guide had spoken words which came flying back into Chayne’s thoughts.  She had climbed that day, though it was her first mountain, as if knowledge of the craft had been born in her.  How to stand upon an ice-slope, how to hold her ax—­she had known.  On the rocks, too!  Which foot to advance, with which hand to grasp the hold—­she had known.  Suppose that knowledge had been born in her!  Why, then those words of her guide began to acquire significance.  She had reminded him of some one—­some one whose name he could not remember—­but some one with whom years ago he had climbed.  And then upon the rocks, some chance movement of Sylvia’s, some way in which she moved from ledge to ledge, had revealed to him the name—­Gabriel Strood.

Was it possible, Chayne asked?  If so, what dark thing was there in the record of Strood’s life that he must change his name, disappear from the world, and avoid the summer nights, the days of sunshine and storm on the high rock-ledges and the ice-slope?

Chayne was minded to find an answer to that question.  Sylvia was in trouble; that house under the downs was no place for her.  He himself was afraid of what was being planned there.  It might help him if he knew something more of Garratt Skinner than he knew at present.  And it seemed to him that there was just a chance of acquiring that knowledge.

He dined at his club, and at ten o’clock walked up St. James’ Street.  The street was empty.  It was a hot starlit night of the first week in August, and there came upon him a swift homesickness for the world above the snow-line.  How many of his friends were sleeping that night in mountain huts high up on the shoulders of the mountains or in bivouacs open to the stars with a rock-cliff at their backs and a fire of pine wood blazing at their feet.  Most likely amongst those friends was the one he sought to-night.