In the Staubthal I joined the main road and swung to the left up the narrowing bed of the valley.  The road was in noble condition, and the car was running finely, as I mounted through forests of snowy Pines to a land where the mountains crept close together, and the highway coiled round the angles of great crags or skirted perilously some profound gorge, with only a line of wooden posts to defend it from the void.  In places the snow stood in walls on either side, where the road was kept open by man’s labour.  In other parts it lay thin, and in the dim light one might have fancied that one was running through open meadowlands.

Slowly my head was getting clearer, and I was able to look round my problem.  I banished from my mind the situation I had left behind me.  Blenkiron must cope with that as best he could.  It lay with him to deal with the Wild Birds, my job was with Ivery alone.  Sometime in the early morning he would reach Santa Chiara, and there he would find Mary.  Beyond that my imagination could forecast nothing.  She would be alone—­I could trust his cleverness for that; he would try to force her to come with him, or he might persuade her with some lying story.  Well, please God, I should come in for the tail end of the interview, and at the thought I cursed the steep gradients I was climbing, and longed for some magic to lift the Daimler beyond the summit and set it racing down the slope towards Italy.

I think it was about half-past three when I saw the lights of the frontier post.  The air seemed milder than in the valleys, and there was a soft scurry of snow on my right cheek.  A couple of sleepy Swiss sentries with their rifles in their hands stumbled out as I drew up.

They took my pass into the hut and gave me an anxious quarter of an hour while they examined it.  The performance was repeated fifty yards on at the Italian post, where to my alarm the sentries were inclined to conversation.  I played the part of the sulky servant, answering in monosyllables and pretending to immense stupidity.

‘You are only just in time, friend,’ said one in German.  ’The weather grows bad and soon the pass will close.  Ugh, it is as cold as last winter on the Tonale.  You remember, Giuseppe?’

But in the end they let me move on.  For a little I felt my way gingerly, for on the summit the road had many twists and the snow was confusing to the eyes.  Presently came a sharp drop and I let the Daimler go.  It grew colder, and I shivered a little; the snow became a wet white fog around the glowing arc of the headlights; and always the road fell, now in long curves, now in steep short dips, till I was aware of a glen opening towards the south.  From long living in the wilds I have a kind of sense for landscape without the testimony of the eyes, and I knew where the ravine narrowed or widened though it was black darkness.