Gustavo, it makes me nervous to see you standing all the
time. I can't be comfortable, you know, unless everybody else is
comfortable. Now pay strict attention and see if you can grasp my
meaning."

Gustavo dubiously accepted the edge of the indicated chair; he wished to
humor the signore's mood, however incomprehensible that mood might be.
For half an hour he listened with strained attention while the gentleman
talked and toyed with the sugar bowl. Amazement, misgiving, amusement,
daring, flashed in succession across his face; in the end he leaned
forward with shining eyes.

"_Si, si_," he whispered after a conspiratorial glance over his shoulder,
"I will do it all; you may trust to me."

The young man rose, removed the sugar bowl, and sauntered on toward the
road. Gustavo pocketed the notes and gazed after him.

"_Dio mio_," he murmured as he set about gathering up the glasses, "zese
Americans!"

At the gate the young man paused to light another cigarette.

"_Addio_, Gustavo," he called over his shoulder, "_don't_ forget the
earrings!"

CHAPTER IV

The table was set on the terrace; breakfast was served and the company
was gathered. Breakfast consisted of the usual caffe-latte, rolls and
strained honey, and--since a journey was to the fore and something
sustaining needed--a soft-boiled egg apiece. There were four persons
present, though there should have been five. The two guests were an
Englishman and his wife, whom the chances of travel had brought over
night to Valedolmo.

Between them, presiding over the coffee machine, was Mr. Wilder's sister,
"Miss Hazel"--never "Miss Wilder" except to the butcher and baker. It was
the cross of her life, she had always affirmed, that her name was not
Mary or Jane or Rebecca. "Hazel" does well enough when one is eighteen
and beautiful, but when one is fifty and no longer beautiful, it is
little short of absurd. But if anyone at fifty could carry such a name
gracefully, it was Miss Hazel Wilder; her fifty years sat as jauntily as
Constance's twenty-two. This morning she was very business-like in her
short skirt, belted jacket, and green felt Alpine hat with a feather in
the side. No one would mistake her for a cyclist or a golfer or a
motorist or anything in the world but an Alpine climber; whatever Miss
Hazel was or was not, she was always _game_.

Across from Miss Hazel sat her brother in knickerbockers, his Alpine
stock at his elbow and also his fan. Since h