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Updated: June 16, 2025
Kenyon leaned forward and gently took the photograph out of Chayne's hand. He mixed it with the others, not giving to it a single glance himself, and then replaced them all in the drawer from which he had taken them. He came back to the table and at last answered Chayne: "John Lattery was your friend. Some of the best hours of your life were passed in his company. You know that now.
Michel Revailloud was on the platform to meet him, but it was a Michel Revailloud whom he hardly knew, a Michel Revailloud grown very old. Revailloud was only fifty-two years of age, but during Chayne's absence the hardships of his life had taken their toll of his vigor remorselessly.
"Gabriel Strood was my John Lattery," and moving round the table he dropped his hand upon Chayne's shoulder. "You will ask me no more questions," he said, with a smile. "I beg your pardon," said Chayne. He had his answer. He knew now that there was something to conceal, that there was a definite reason why Gabriel Strood disappeared.
To-morrow he would ascend the buttress, traverse the ice-ridge with Walter Hine perhaps yes, only perhaps and at that thought Chayne's heart stood still. And even if he did, there were the hanging ice-cliffs above, and yet another day would pass before any alarm at his absence would be felt. Surely, it would be the Brenva route!
I pulled forward a chair and invited the lady to sit for she had been standing and her astonishing entrance had flabbergasted ceremonious observance out of me. Whilst she was accepting my belated courtesy, Barbara continued to smile and said: "You mustn't look on us as strangers, Mrs. Prescott. We are all Mr. Chayne's oldest and most intimate friends." "Do tell us what the row was?" said Jaffery.
He held it first to Chayne's pipe-bowl and then to his own; and for a moment his face was lit with the red glow. Its age thus revealed, and framed in the darkness, shocked Chayne, even at this moment, more than it had done on the platform at Chamonix. Not merely were its deep lines shown up, but all the old humor and alertness had gone. The face had grown mask-like and spiritless.
Kenyon put a whisky and soda by Chayne's elbow, and setting the tobacco jar on a little table between them, sat down and lighted his pipe. "You came back at once?" he asked. "I crossed the Col Dolent and went down into Italy," replied Chayne. "Yes, yes," said Kenyon, nodding his head. "But you will go back next year, or the year after."
But she was not grateful for having the fact pointed out to her. And while she still looked, she heard her father's voice calling her. She shivered, as though her fear once more laid hold on her. Then she locked the bottle of cocaine away in a drawer and ran lightly down the stairs. Chayne's house stood high upon a slope of the Sussex Downs.
Michel spoke with so much certainty that even in the face of his telegram, in the face of the story which Jules had told, hope sprang up within Chayne's heart. "Then he may be still up there on some ledge. He would surely not have slipped on the Glacier des Nantillons." That hope, however, was not shared by Michel Revailloud. "There is very little snow this year," he said.
"Monsieur, never engage Pierre Delouvain for your guide. I speak solemnly. Joseph yes, and whenever you can secure him. I thought you spoke of him. But Pierre, he is a cousin who lives upon Joseph's name, a worthless fellow, a drunkard. Monsieur, never trust yourself or any one whom you hold dear with Pierre Delouvain!" Chayne's last doubt was dispelled.
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