te, she too would search the spacious lounge with those fine eyes of
hers for the man described therein. If that were so, he meant to go to
her instantly, discuss the strangeness of the coincidence that led to
two of Mackenzie's friends being at the hotel at the same time, and
suggest that they should dine together.

The project seemed feasible, and it was decidedly pleasant in
perspective. He longed to compare notes with her,--to tell her the
quaint stories of the hills related to him by Stampa in a medley of
English, French, Italian, and German; perhaps to plan delightful trips
to the fairyland in company.

People began to clear away from the hall porter's table; yet Helen
remained invisible. He could hardly have missed her; but to make
certain he rose and glanced at the few remaining letters. Yes, "The
Firefly's" gaudy imprint still gleamed at him. He turned way,
disappointed. After his long tramp and a night in a weird Italian inn,
a bath was imperative, and the boom of the dressing gong was imminent.

He was crossing the hall toward the elevator when he heard her voice.

"I am so glad you are keen on an early climb," she was saying, with
a new note of confidence that stirred him strangely. "I have been
longing to leave the sign boards and footpaths far behind, but I felt
rather afraid of going to the Forno for the first time with a guide.
You see, I know nothing about mountaineering, and you can put me up to
all the dodges beforehand."

"Show you the ropes, in fact," agreed the man with her, Mark Bower.

Spencer was so completely taken by surprise that he could only stare
at the two as though they were ghosts. They had entered the hotel
together, and had apparently been out for a walk. Helen picked up her
letter and held it carelessly in her hand while she continued to talk
with Bower. Her pleasurable excitement was undeniable. She regarded
her companion as a friend, and was evidently overjoyed at his
presence. Spencer banged into the elevator, astonished the attendant
and two other occupants by the savagery of his command, "Au deuxieme,
vite!" and paced through a long corridor with noisy clatter of
hob-nailed boots.

He was in a rare fret and fume when he sat down to dinner alone. Bower
was at Helen's table. It was brightened by rare flowers not often seen
in sterile Maloja. A bottle of champagne rested in an ice bucket by
his side. He had brought with him the atmosphere of London, of the
pleasant life tha