earth to myself, for there was not a sound except the slipping of a burden of snow from the trees or the crack and rustle which reminded me that a glacier was a moving river.  The war seemed very far away, and I felt the littleness of our human struggles, till I thought of Peter turning from side to side to find ease in the cottage far below me.  Then I realized that the spirit of man was the greatest thing in this spacious world . . .  I would get back about three or four, have a bath in the water which had been warming in my absence, and creep into bed, almost ashamed of having two sound legs, when a better man a yard away had but one.

Oddly enough at these hours there seemed more life in the Pink Chalet than by day.  Once, tramping across the lake long after midnight, I saw lights in the lake-front in windows which for ordinary were blank and shuttered.  Several times I cut across the grounds, when the moon was dark.  On one such occasion a great car with no lights swept up the drive, and I heard low voices at the door.  Another time a man ran hastily past me, and entered the house by a little door on the eastern side, which I had not before noticed . . .  Slowly the conviction began to grow on me that we were not wrong in marking down this place, that things went on within it which it deeply concerned us to discover.  But I was puzzled to think of a way.  I might butt inside, but for all I knew it would be upsetting Blenkiron’s plans, for he had given me no instructions about housebreaking.  All this unsettled me worse than ever.  I began to lie awake planning some means of entrance . . .  I would be a peasant from the next valley who had twisted his ankle . . .  I would go seeking an imaginary cousin among the servants . . .  I would start a fire in the place and have the doors flung open to zealous neighbours . . .

And then suddenly I got instructions in a letter from Blenkiron.

It came inside a parcel of warm socks that arrived from my kind aunt.  But the letter for me was not from her.  It was in Blenkiron’s large sprawling hand and the style of it was all his own.  He told me that he had about finished his job.  He had got his line on Chelius, who was the bird he expected, and that bird would soon wing its way southward across the mountains for the reason I knew of.

‘We’ve got an almighty move on,’ he wrote, ’and please God you’re going to hustle some in the next week.  It’s going better than I ever hoped.’  But something was still to be done.  He had struck a countryman, one Clarence Donne, a journalist of Kansas City, whom he had taken into the business.  Him he described as a ‘crackerjack’ and commended to my esteem.  He was coming to St Anton, for there was a game afoot at the Pink Chalet, which he would give me news of.  I was to meet him next evening at nine-fifteen at the little door in the east end of the house.  ‘For the love of Mike, Dick,’ he concluded, ’be on time and do everything Clarence tells you as if he was me.  It’s a mighty complex affair, but you and he have sand enough to pull through.  Don’t worry about your little cousin.  She’s safe and out of the job now.’