read and concerning which the narrative had
not been clear. And then a cry of surprise burst from her lips.

Chayne had just assured himself that there was no portrait of Gabriel
Strood amongst those spread out upon the table.

"What is it, madame?" asked Michel.

Sylvia did not answer, but stared in bewilderment at the open page.
Chayne saw the book which she was reading and knew that his care lest she
should come across her father's portrait was of no avail. He crossed
round behind her chair and looked over her shoulder. There on the page in
her father's handwriting was the signature: "Gabriel Strood."

Sylvia raised her face to Hilary's, and before she could put her question
he answered it quietly with a nod of the head.

"Yes, that is so," he said.

"You knew?"

"I have known for a long time," he replied.

Sylvia was lost in wonder. Yet there was no doubt in her mind. Gabriel
Strood, of whom she had made a hero, whose exploits she knew almost by
heart, had suffered from a physical disability which might well have
kept the most eager mountaineer to the level. It was because of his
mastery over his disability that she had set him so high in her esteem.
Well, there had been a day when her father had tramped across the downs
to Dorchester and had come back lame and in spite of his lameness had
left his companions behind. Other trifles recurred to her memory. She
had found him reading "The Alps in 1864," and yes--he had tried to hide
from her the title of the book. On their first meeting he had understood
at once when she had spoken to him of the emotion which her first
mountain peak had waked in her. And before that--yes, her guide had
cried aloud to her, "You remind me of Gabriel Strood." She owed it to
him that she had turned to the Alps as to her heritage, and that she had
brought to them an instinctive knowledge. Her first feeling was one of
sheer pride in her father. Then the doubts began to thicken. He called
himself Garratt Skinner.

"Why? But why?" she cried, impulsively, and Chayne, still leaning on her
chair, pressed her arm with his hand and warned her to be silent.

"I will tell you afterward," he said, quietly, and then he suddenly drew
himself upright. The movement was abrupt like the movement of a man
thoroughly startled--more startled even than she had been by the
unexpected sight of her father's handwriting. She looked up into his
face. He was staring at the open page of Michel's book. She t