With his hands in his pockets he followed his guide with long, easy strides.  The ascent was nothing to him, and the other’s halting progress brought a smile of contemptuous pity to his lips.  What did the old rascal expect to gain from the interview he wondered?

Up and up the narrow path they went, till at length a small natural platform in the shoulder of the hill was reached, and here the ragged creature in front of Dacre paused and turned.

The moonlight smote full upon him, revealing him in every repulsive detail.  His eyes burned in their red-rimmed sockets as he lifted them.  But he did not speak even after the careless saunter of the Englishman had ceased at his side.  The dash of the stream far below rose up like the muffled roar of a train in a tunnel.  The bed of it was very narrow at that point and the current swift.

For a moment or two Dacre stood waiting, the cigar still between his lips, his eyes upon the gleaming caps of the snow-hills far away.  But very soon the spell of them fell from him.  It was not his nature to remain silent for long.

With his easy, superior laugh he turned and looked his motionless companion up and down.  “Well?” he said.  “Have you brought me here to admire the view?  Very fine no doubt; but I could have done it without your guidance.”

There was no immediate reply to his carelessly flung query, and faint curiosity arose within him mingling with his strong contempt.  He pulled a hand out of his pocket and displayed a few annas in his palm.

“Well?” he said again.  “What may this valuable piece of information be worth?”

The other made an abrupt movement; it was almost as if he curbed some savage impulse to violence.  He moved back a pace, and there in the moonlight before Dacre’s insolent gaze—­he changed.

With a deep breath he straightened himself to the height of a tall man.  The bent contorted limbs became lithe and strong.  The cringing humility slipped from him like a garment.  He stood upright and faced Ralph Dacre—­a man in the prime of life.

“That,” he said, “is a matter of opinion.  So far as I am concerned, it has cost a damned uncomfortable journey.  But—­it will probably cost you more than that.”

“Great—­Jupiter!” said Dacre.

He stood and stared and stared.  The curt speech, the almost fiercely contemptuous bearing, the absolute, unwavering assurance of this man whom but a moment before he had so arrogantly trampled underfoot sent through him such a shock of amazement as nearly deprived him of the power to think.  Perhaps for the first time in his life he was utterly and completely at a loss.  Only as he gazed at the man before him, there came upon him, sudden as a blow, the memory of a certain hot day more than a year before when he and Everard Monck had wrestled together in the Club gymnasium for the benefit of a little crowd of subalterns who had eagerly betted upon the result.  It had been sinew versus weight, and after a tough struggle sinew had prevailed.  He remembered the unpleasant sensation of defeat even now though he had had the grit to take it like a man and get up laughing.  It was one of the very few occasions he could remember upon which he had been worsted.