more convinced than
ever that he had blundered egregiously in dragging this sedate and
charming girl from the quiet round of existence in London to the
artificial life of the Kursaal. Some feeling of unrest had driven her
forth to commune with the stars. Was she asking herself why she was
denied the luxuries showered on the doll-like creatures whose
malicious tongues were busy the instant Bower set foot in the hotel?
It would be an ill outcome of his innocent subterfuge if she returned
to England discontented and rebellious. She was in "chastened mood,"
she had said. He wondered why? Had Bower been too confident,--too sure
of his prey to guard his tongue? Of all the unlooked for developments
that could possibly be bound up with the harmless piece of midsummer
madness that sent Helen Wynton to Switzerland, surely this roue's
presence was the most irritating and perplexing.

Then from the road came another stanza from the wine bibbers, now
homeward bound. They were still howling about Margharita in long
sustained cadences. And Spencer knew his Faust. It was to the moon
that the lovesick maiden confided her dreams, and Mephisto was at hand
to jog the elbow of his bewitched philosopher at exactly the right
moment.

Spencer threw his cigar into the gurgling rivulet of the Inn. He
condemned Switzerland, and the Upper Engadine, and the very great
majority of the guests in the Kursaal, in one emphatic malediction,
and went to his room, hoping to sleep, but actually to lie awake for
hours and puzzle his brains in vain effort to evolve a satisfying
sequel to the queer combination of events he had set in motion when he
ran bare headed into the Strand after Bower's motor car.

CHAPTER VIII

SHADOWS

"It is a glorious morning. If the weather holds, your first visit to
the real Alps should be memorable," said Bower.

Helen had just descended the long flight of steps in front of the
hotel. A tender purple light filled the valley. The nearer hills were
silhouetted boldly against a sky of primrose and pink; but the misty
depths where the lake lurked beneath the pines had not yet yielded
wholly to the triumph of the new day. The air had a cold life in it
that invigorated while it chilled. It resembled some _vin frappe_ of
rare vintage. Its fragrant vivacity was ready to burst forth at the
first encouraging hint of a kindlier temperature.

"Why that dubious clause as to the weather?" asked Helen, looking at
the golden s