worthless, and which would leave no
suspicion resting on Garratt Skinner? There would be no cutting of the
rope. Of that he felt sure. That method might do very well for a
melodrama, but actually--no! Garratt Skinner would have a better plan
than that. And indeed he had, a better plan and a simpler one, a plan
which not merely would give to any uttered suspicion the complexion of
malignancy, but must even bring Mr. Garratt Skinner honor and great
praise. But no idea of the plan occurred either to Sylvia or to Chayne as
all through that long hot day they toiled up the ice-fall of the Col du
Geant and over the passes. It was evening before they came to the
pastures, night before they reached Courmayeur.

There Chayne found full confirmation of his fears. In spite of effort to
dissuade them, Garratt Skinner, Walter Hine and Pierre Delouvain had
started yesterday for the Brenva climb. They had taken porters with them
as far as the sleeping-place upon the glacier rocks. The porters had
returned. Chayne sent for them.

"Yes," they said. "At half past two this morning, the climbing party
descended from the rocks on to the ice-fall of the glacier. They should
be at the hut at the Grands Mulets now, on the other side of the
mountain, if not already in Chamonix. Perhaps monsieur would wish for
porters to-morrow."

"No," said Chayne. "We mean to try the passage in one day"; and he turned
to his guides. "I wish to start at midnight. It is important. We shall
reach the glacier by five. Will you be ready?"

And at midnight accordingly he set out by the light of a lantern. Sylvia
stood outside the hotel and watched the flame diminish to a star, dance
for a little while, and then go out. For her, as for all women, the bad
hour had struck when there was nothing to do but to sit and watch and
wait. Perhaps her husband, after all, was wrong, she said to herself,
and repeated the phrase, hoping that repetition would carry conviction
to her heart.

But early on that morning Chayne had sure evidence that he was right. For
as he, Simond and Andre Droz were marching in single file through the
thin forest behind the chalets of La Brenva, a shepherd lad came running
down toward them. He was so excited that he could hardly tell the story
with which he was hurrying to Courmayeur. Only an hour before he had
seen, high up on the Brenva ridge, a man waving a signal of distress.
Both Simond and Droz discredited the story. The distance was too gre