who served him imagined that there was something wrong with the
liqueur.

"_N'est-ce pas bon, m'sieur?_" he began.

"Will you go to the devil?" said Bower, speaking very slowly without
looking at him.

"_Oui, m'sieur, Je vous assure_," and the man disappeared.

It was not the wine, but the woman, that was perplexing him. Not often
had the lure of gold failed so signally. And why was she so manifestly
startled at the last moment? Had he gone too far? Was he mistaken in
the assumption that Millicent Jaques had said little or nothing
concerning him to her friend? And this commission too,--there were
inexplicable features about it. He knew a great deal of the ways of
newspapers, daily and weekly, and it was not the journalistic habit to
send inexperienced young women on costly journeys to write up Swiss
summer resorts.

He frowned still more deeply as he thought of the Maloja-Kulm Hotel,
for Helen had innocently affixed a label bearing her address on her
handbag. He peopled it with dozens of smart young men and not a few
older beaux of his own type. His features relaxed somewhat when he
remembered the women. Helen was alone, and far too good-looking to
command sympathy. There should be the elements of trouble in that
quarter. If he played his cards well, and he had no reason to doubt
his skill, Helen should greet him as her best friend when he surprised
her by appearing unexpectedly at the Maloja-Kulm.

Then he waxed critical. She was young, and lively, and unquestionably
pretty; but was she worth all this planning and contriving? She was by
way of being a prude too, and held serious notions of women's place in
the scheme of things. At any rate, the day's hunting had not brought
him far out of his path, Frankfort being his real objective, and he
would make up his mind later. Perhaps she would remove all obstacles
by writing to him on her return to London; but the recollection of her
frank, clear gaze, of lips that were molded for strength as well as
sweetness, of the dignity and grace with which the well shaped head
was poised on a white firm neck, warned him that such a woman might
surrender to love, but never to greed.

Then he laughed, and ordered another liqueur, and drank a toast to
to-morrow, when all things come to pass for the man who knows how to
contrive to-day.

In the early morning, at Basle, he awoke, and was somewhat angry with
himself when he found that his thoughts still dwelt on Helen Wynton.
In