CHAPTER XV

A COWARD'S VICTORY

"It is a queer story," said Bower.

"Because it is true," retorted Millicent.

"Yet she never set eyes on the man until she met him here."

"That is rather impossible, isn't it?"

"It is a fact, nevertheless. On the day I arrived in Maloja, a letter

came from the editor of 'The Firefly,' telling her that he had written

to Spencer, whom he knew, and suggested that they should become

acquainted."

"These things are easily managed," said Millicent airily.

"I accept Miss Wynton's version." Bower spoke with brutal frankness.

The morning's tribulation had worn away some of the veneer. He fully

expected the girl to flare into ill suppressed rage. Then he could

deal with her as he liked. He had not earned his repute in the city

of London without revealing at times the innate savagery of his

nature. As soon as he had taunted his adversaries into a passion,

he found the weak joints in their armor. He was surprised now that

Millicent should laugh. If she was acting, she was acting well.

"It is too funny for words to see you playing the trustful swain," she

said.

"One necessarily believes the best of one's future wife."

"So you still keep up that pretense? It was a good line in last

night's situation; but it becomes farcical when applied to light

comedy."

"I give you credit for sufficient wit to understand why I joined you

here. We can avoid unpleasant explanations. I am prepared to bury the

hatchet--on terms."

"Terms?"

"Yes. You are a blackmailer, a somewhat dangerous one. You tempt me to

revise the wisest of La Rochefoucauld's maxims, and say that every

woman is at heart a snake. You owe everything to me; yet you are not

content. Without my help you would still be carrying a banner in the

chorus. Unless I continue my patronage, that is what you must go back

to. Don't imagine that I am treating with you out of sentiment. For

Helen's sake, for her sake only, I offer a settlement."

Millicent's eyes narrowed a little; but she affected to admire the

gleaming beads in a glass of champagne. "Pray continue," she said.

"Your views are interesting."

There was some danger lest Bower should reverse his wonted procedure,

and lose his own temper in this unequal duel. They both spoke in low

tones. Anyone watching them would find the smiles of conventionality

on their lips. To all outward seeming, they were indulging in a

friendly gossip.

"Of course, you want money," he said. "That is the be-all and

end-all of your existence. Very well. Write a letter to Miss Wynton

apologizing for your conduct, take yourself away from here at three

o'clock, and from St. Moritz by the next train, and I not only

withdraw my threat to bar you in the profession but shall hand you

a check for a thousand pounds."

Millicent pretended to consider his proposal. She shook her head. "Not

nearly enough," she said, with a sweetly deprecatory moue.

"It is all you will get. I repeat that I am doing this to spare

Helen's feelings. Perhaps I am ill advised. You have done your worst

already, and it only remains for me to crush you. But I stick to the

bargain--for five minutes."

"Dear, dear!" she sighed. "Only five minutes? Do you get rid of your

troubles so quickly? How nice to be a man, and to be able to settle

matters with such promptitude."

Bower was undeniably perplexed; but he held to his line. Unwavering

tenacity of purpose was his chief characteristic. "Meanwhile," he

said, "let us talk of the weather."

"A most seasonable topic. It was altogether novel this morning to wake

and find the world covered with snow."

"If the Maloja is your world, you must have thought it rather

chilling," he laughed.

"Yes, cold, perhaps, but fascinating. I went for a walk. You see, I

wanted to be alone, to think what I should do for the best. A woman is

so helpless when she has to fight a big, strong man like you. Chance

led me to the cemetery. What an odd little place it is? Wouldn't you

hate to be buried there?"

It was now Millicent's turn to be surprised. Not by the slightest

tremor did Bower betray the shock caused by her innuendo. His nerves

were proof against further assault that day. Fear had conquered him

for an instant when he looked into the gate of darkness. With its

passing from before his eyes, his intellect resumed its sway, and he

weighed events by that nicely adjusted balance. None but a man who

greatly dared would be sitting opposite Millicent at that moment. None

but a fool would have failed to understand her. But he gave no sign

that he understood. He refilled his glass, and emptied it with the

gusto of a connoisseur.

"That is a good wine," he said. "Sometimes pints are better than

quarts, although of the same vintage. Waiter, another half bottle,

please."

"No more for me, of course," murmured Millicent. "I must keep my

head clear,--so much depends on the next five minutes."

"Three, to be exact."

"Ah, then, I must use them to advantage. Shall I tell you more about

my early stroll?"

"What time did you go out?"

"Soon after ten o'clock."

"You saw--what?"

"A most exciting struggle--and--what shall I call it?--a ceremony."

Bower was silent for an appreciable time. He watched a waiter

uncorking the champagne. When the bottle was placed on the table he

pretended to read the label. He was thinking that Stampa's marriage

service was not so futile, after all. It had soon erected its first

barrier. Millicent, who had qualities rare in a woman, turned and

looked at a clock. Incidentally, she discovered that Spencer was

devoting some attention to the proceedings at her table. Still Bower

remained silent. She stole a glance at him. She was conscious that an

abiding dread was stealing into her heart; but her stage training came

to her aid, and she managed to say evenly:

"My little ramble does not appear to interest you?"

"It does," he said. "I have been arguing the pros and cons of a

ticklish problem. There are two courses to me. I can either bribe

you, or leave you to your own devices. The latter method implies the

interference of the police. I dislike that. Helen would certainly be

opposed to it. I make the one thousand into five; but I want your

answer now."

"I accept," she said instantly.

"Ah, but you are trembling. Queer, isn't it, how thin is the partition

between affluence and a prison? There are dozens of men who stand high

in commercial circles in London who ought to be in jail. There are

quite as many convicts in Portland who reached penal servitude along

precisely the same road. That is the penalty of being found out. Let

me congratulate you. And do try another glass of this excellent wine.

You need it, and you have to pack your belongings at once, you know."

"Thank you."

Her eyes sparkled. Her well modulated voice was hardly under control.

Five thousand pounds was a great deal of money; but the tragedy of

Etta Stampa's life might have been worth more. How could she find out

the whole truth? She must accomplish that, in some way.

Therein, however, she greatly miscalculated. Bower divined her thought

almost before it was formed. "For goodness' sake, let us put things in

plain English!" he said. "I am paying you handsomely to save the woman

I am going to marry from some little suffering and heartache. Perhaps

it is unnecessary. Her fine nature might forgive a man a transgression

of his youth. At any rate, I avert the risk by this payment. The check

will be payable to you personally. In other words, you must place it

to your own account in your bank. Any breach of our contract in letter

or spirit during the next two days will be punished by its stoppage.

After that time, the remotest hint on your part of any scandalous

knowledge affecting me, or Helen, or the causes which led to my

present weakness in allowing you to blackmail me, will imply the

immediate issue of a warrant for your arrest. Need I explain the

position at greater length?"

"No," said Millicent, who wished now that she had bitten off the end

of her tongue before she vented her spleen to the Vavasours and the

Wraggs.

"On second thoughts," went on Bower unconcernedly, "I forego the

stipulation as to a letter of apology. I don't suppose Helen will

value it. Assuredly, I do not."

The cheapening of her surrender stung more than she counted on. "I

have tried to avoid the appearance of uncalled for rudeness to-day,"

she blurted out.

"Well--yes. What is the number of your room?"

She told him.

"I shall send the check to you at once. Have you finished?"

He accompanied her to the door, bowed her out, and came back. Smiling

affably, he pulled a chair to Mrs. de la Vere's side.

"I quite enjoyed my luncheon," he said. "You all heard that stupid

outburst of Millicent's last night; so there is no harm in telling

you that she regrets it. She is leaving the hotel forthwith."

Helen rose suddenly. "She is one of my few friends," she said. "I

cannot let her go in anger."

"She is unworthy of your friendship," exclaimed Bower sharply. "Take

my advice and forget that she exists."

"You cannot forget that anyone exists, or has existed," said Spencer

quietly.

"What? You too?" said Bower. His eyes sought the American's, and

flashed an unspoken challenge.

He felt that the world was a few hundred years too old. There were

historical precedents for settling affairs such as that now troubling

him by means that would have appealed to him. But he opposed no

further hindrance to Helen's departure. Indeed, he perceived that her

meeting with Millicent would provide in some sense a test of his own

judgment. He would soon learn whether or not money would prevail.

He waited a little while, and then sent his valet with the check and a

request for an acknowledgment. The man brought him a scribbled note:

"Was rather taken aback by appearance of H. She says you

told her I was leaving the hotel. We fell on each other's

neck and wept. Is that right? M. J."

He cut the end off a cigar, lit the paper with a match, and lit the

cigar with the paper.

"Five thousand pounds!" he said to himself. "It is a lot of money to

one who has none. I remember the time when I would have sold my soul

to the devil for half the amount."

But that was not a pleasing notion. It suggested that, by evil hazard,

some such contract had, in fact, been made, but forgotten by one of

the parties to it. So he dismissed it. Having disposed of Stampa and

Millicent, practically between breakfast and lunch, there were no

reasons why he should trouble further about them. The American

threatened a fresh obstacle. He was winning his way with Helen

altogether too rapidly. In the light of those ominous words at the

luncheon table his close association with Stampa indicated a definite

knowledge of the past. Curse him! Why did he interfere?

Bower was eminently a selfish man. He had enjoyed unchecked success

for so long a time that he railed now at the series of mischances that

tripped the feet of his desires. Looking back through recent days, he

was astonished to find how often Spencer had crossed his path. Before

he was four hours in Maloja, Helen, in his hearing, had singled out

the American for conjecture and scrutiny. Then Dunston spoke of the

same man as an eager adversary at baccarat; but the promised game was

arranged without Spencer's cooperation, greatly to Dunston's loss. A

man did not act in such fashion without some motive. What was it? This

reserved, somewhat contemptuous rival had also snatched Helen from

his company many times. He had undoubtedly rendered some service in

coming to the Forno hut; but Bower's own lapse from sanity on that

occasion did not escape his notice. Finally, this cool mannered, alert

youngster from the New World did not seem to care a fig for any prior

claim on Helen's affections. His whole attitude might be explained by

the fact that he was Stampa's employer, and had won the old guide's

confidence.

Yes, the American was the real danger. That pale ghost conjured from

the grave by Stampa was intangible, powerless, a dreamlike wraith

evoked by a madman's fancy. Already the fear engendered myopia of the

morning was passing from Bower's eyes. The passage of arms with

Millicent had done him good. He saw now that if he meant to win Helen

he must fight for her.

Glancing at his watch, he found that the time was a quarter to three.

He opened a window in his sitting room, which was situated in the

front of the hotel. By leaning out he could survey the carriage stand

at the foot of the long flight of steps. A pair-horse vehicle was

drawn up there, and men were fastening portly dress baskets in the

baggage carrier over the hind wheels.

He smiled. "The pretty dancer travels luxuriously," he thought. "I

wonder whether she will be honest enough to pay her debts with my

money?"

He still hated her for having dragged him into a public squabble. He

looked to the future to requite him. A year, two years, would soon

pass. Then, when funds were low and engagements scarce, she would

appeal to him again, and his solicitors would reply. He caught himself

framing curt, stinging sentences to be embodied in the letter; but he

drew himself up with a start. Surely there was something very wrong

with Mark Bower, the millionaire, when he gloated over such paltry

details. Why, his reflections were worthy of that old spitfire, Mrs.

de Courcy Vavasour.

His cigar had gone out. He threw it away. It had the taste of

Millicent's cheap passion. A decanter of brandy stood on the table,

and he drank a small quantity, though he had imbibed freely of

champagne at luncheon. He glanced at a mirror. His face was flushed

and care lined, and he scowled at his own apparition.

"I must go and see the last of Millicent. It will cheer me up," he

said to himself.

When he entered the foyer, Millicent was already in the veranda, a

dainty picture in furs and feathers. Somewhat to his surprise, Helen

was with her. A good many people were watching them covertly, a quite

natural proceeding in view of their strained relations overnight.

[Illustration: "It will paralyze the dowager brigade if we hug each

other."

_Page 309_]

Millicent's first action after quitting the _salle a manger_ had been

to worm out of Leontine the full, true, and particular history of Etta

Stampa, or so much of the story as was known to the hotel servants.

The recital was cut short by Helen's visit, but resumed during

packing operations, as Millicent had enlarged her store of knowledge

considerably during the process of reconciliation.

So, alive to possibilities going far beyond a single check, even for

five thousand pounds, at the last moment she sent a message to Helen.

"Come and see me off," she wrote. "It will simply paralyze

the dowager brigade if we hug each other on the mat."

Helen agreed. She was not sorry that her critics should be paralyzed,

or stupefied, or rendered incapable in some way of inflicting further

annoyance. In her present radiant mood, nearly all her troubles having

taken unto themselves wings, she looked on yesterday's episode in the

light of a rather far fetched joke. Bower stood so high in her esteem

that she was sure the outspoken announcement of his intentions was

dictated chiefly by anger at Millicent's unfair utterances. Perhaps he

had some thought of marriage; but he must seek a wife in a more

exalted sphere. She felt in her heart that Spencer was only awaiting a

favorable opportunity to declare his love, and she did not strive to

repress the wave of divine happiness that flooded her heart at the

thought.

After much secret pondering and some shy confidences intrusted to Mrs.

de la Vere, she had resolved to tell him that if he left the Maloja at

once--an elastic phrase in lovers' language--and came to her in

London next month, she would have an answer ready. She persuaded

herself that there was no other honorable way out of an embarrassing

position. She had come to Switzerland for work, not for love making.

Spencer would probably wish to marry her forthwith, and that was not

to be thought of while "The Firefly's" commission was only half

completed. All of which modest and maidenly reasoning left wholly out

of account Spencer's strenuous wooing; it is chronicled here merely to

show her state of mind when she kissed Millicent farewell.

It is worthy of note also that two young people who might be expected

to take the liveliest interest in each other's company were steadfast

in their determination to separate. Each meant to send the other back

to England with the least possible delay, and both were eager to fly

into each other's arms--in London! Whereat the gods may have laughed,

or frowned, as the case may be, if they glanced at the horoscopes of

certain mortals pent within the mountain walls of the Upper Engadine.

While Helen was still gazing after Millicent's retreating carriage,

Bower came from the darksome foyer to the sunlit veranda. "So you

parted the best of friends?" he said quietly.

She turned and looked at him with shining eyes. "I cannot tell you how

pleased I am that a stupid misunderstanding should be cleared away!"

she said.

"Then I share your pleasure, though, to be candid, I was thinking

that a woman's kiss has infinite gradations. It may savor of Paradise

or the Dead Sea."

"But she told me how grieved she was that she had behaved so

foolishly, and appealed to me not to let the folly of a day break the

friendship of years."

"Ah! Millicent picks up some well turned sentiments on the stage. Come

out for a little stroll, and tell me all about it."

Helen hesitated. "It will soon be tea time," she said, with a self

conscious blush. She had promised Spencer to walk with him to the

chateau; but her visit to Millicent had intervened, and he was not on

the veranda at the moment.

"We need not go far. The sun has garnished the roads for us. What do

you say if we make for the village, and interview Johann Klucker's cat

on the weather?"

His tone was quite reassuring. To her transparent honesty of purpose

it seemed better that they should discuss Millicent's motive in coming

to the hotel and then dismiss it for ever. "A most excellent idea,"

she cried lightly. "I have been writing all the morning, so a breath

of fresh air will be grateful."

They passed down the steps.

They had not gone more than a few paces when the driver of an empty

carriage pulled up his vehicle and handed Bower a telegram.

"They gave it to me at St. Moritz, Herr Bower," he said. "I took a

message there for Herr Spencer, and they asked me to bring this to

you, as it would reach you more quickly than if it came by the post."

Bower thanked the man, and opened the envelop. It was a very long

telegram; but he only glanced at it in the most cursory manner before

putting it in a pocket.

At a distant corner of the road by the side of the lake, Millicent

turned for a last look at the hotel and waved a hand at them. Helen

replied.

"I almost wish now she was staying here a few days," she said

wistfully. "She ought to have seen our valley in its summer greenery."

"I fear she brought winter in her train," was Bower's comment. "But

the famous cat must decide. Here, boy," he went on, hailing a village

urchin, "where is Johann Klucker's house?"

The boy pointed to a track that ran close to the right bank of the

tiny Inn. He explained volubly, and was rewarded with a franc.

"Do you know this path?" asked Bower. "Klucker's chalet is near the

waterfall, which should be a fine sight owing to the melting snow."

It was Helen's favorite walk. She would have preferred a more

frequented route; but the group of houses described by the boy was

quite near, and she could devise no excuse for keeping to the busy

highway. As the path was narrow she walked in front. The grass and

flowers seemed to have drawn fresh tints from the snow, which had

cleared away with magical rapidity from this sheltered spot. But

the little rivulet, usually diamond bright, was now a turbulent and

foaming stream. Care was needed not to slip. If anyone fell into that

miniature torrent, it would be no easy matter to escape without broken

bones.

"Would you ever believe that a few hours' snow, followed by a hot sun,

would make such a difference to a mere ribbon of water like this?" she

asked, when they were passing through a narrow cleft in a wall of rock

through which the Inn roared with a quite respectable fury.

"I am in a mood to believe anything," said Bower. "Do you remember our

first meeting at the Embankment Hotel? Who would have imagined then

that Millicent Jaques, a few weeks later, would rush a thousand miles

to the Maloja and scream her woes to Heaven and the multitude. Neither

you nor I, I fancy, had seen her during the interval. Did she tell you

the cause of her extraordinary behavior?"

"No. I did not ask her. But it scarce needed explanation, Mr. Bower.

I--I fear she suspected me of flirting. It was unjust; but I can well

conceive that a woman who thinks her friend is robbing her of a man's

affections does not wait to consider nice points of procedure."

"Surely Millicent did not say that I had promised to marry her?"

Though Helen was not prepared for this downright plunge into an

embarrassing discussion, she managed to evade a direct answer. "There

was more than a suggestion of that in her words last night," she said.

"Perhaps she thought so in all seriousness. You seem to have

undeceived her to-day, and I am sure you must have dealt with her

kindly, or she would not have acknowledged her mistake in such frank

terms to me. There, now! That is the end of a very disagreeable

episode. Shall we say no more about it?"

Helen was flushed and hurried of speech: but she persevered bravely,

hoping that Bower's tact would not desert him at this crisis. She

quickened her pace a little, with the air of one who has said the last

word on a difficult topic and is anxious to forget it.

Bower overtook her. He grasped her shoulder almost roughly, and drew

her round till she faced him. "You are trying to escape me, Helen!" he

said hoarsely. "That is impossible. Someone must have told you what I

said to Millicent in the hearing of all who chose to listen. Her

amazing outburst forced from me an avowal that should have been made

to you alone. Helen, I want you to be my wife. I love you better than

all the world. I have my faults,--what man is flawless?--but I have

the abiding virtue of loving you. I shall make your life happy, Helen.

For God's sake do not tell me that you are already promised to

another!"

His eyes blazed into hers with a passion that was appalling in its

intensity. She seemed to lose the power to speak or move. She looked

up at him like a frightened child, who hears strange words that she

does not comprehend. Thinking he had won her, he threw his arms about

her and strained her fiercely to his breast. He strove to kiss away

the tears that began to fall in piteous protest; but she bent her head

as if in shame.

"Oh, please let me go!" she sobbed. "Please let me go! What have I

done that you should treat me so cruelly."

"Cruelly, Helen? How should I be cruel to you whom I hold so dear?"

Still he clasped her tightly, hardly knowing what he did in his

transport of joy at the belief that she was his.

She struggled to free herself. She shrank from this physical contact

with a strange repulsion. She felt as a timid animal must feel when

some lord of the jungle pulls it down and drags it to his lair. Bower

was kissing her cheeks, her forehead, her hair, finding a mad rapture

in the fragrance of her skin. He crushed her in a close embrace that

was almost suffocating.

"Oh, please let me go!" she wailed. "You frighten me. Let me go! How

dare you!"

She fought so wildly that he yielded to a dim sense that she was in

earnest. He relaxed his grip. With the instinct of a hunted thing, she

took a dangerous leap for safety clean across the swollen Inn. Luckily

she alighted on a broad boulder, or a sprained ankle would have been

the least penalty for that desperate means of escape.

As she stood there, with tears streaming down her face and the crimson

brand of angry terror on her brow, the dreadful knowledge that he had

lost her smote Bower like a rush of cold air from a newly opened tomb.

Between them brawled the tiny torrent. It offered no bar to an active

man; but even in his panic of sudden perception he resisted the

impulse that bade him follow.

"Helen," he pleaded, stretching forth his hands in frenzied gesture,

"why do you cast me off? I swear by all a man holds sacred that I mean

no wrong. You are dear to me as life itself. Ah, Helen, say that I may

hope! I do not even ask for your love. I shall win that by a lifetime

of devotion."

At last she found utterance. He had alarmed her greatly; but no woman

can feel it an outrage that a man should avow his longing. And she

pitied Bower with a great pity. Deep down in her heart was a suspicion

that they might have been happy together had they met sooner. She

would never have loved him,--she knew that now beyond cavil,--but if

they were married she must have striven to make life pleasant for him,

while she drifted down the smooth stream of existence free from either

abiding joys or carking sorrows.

"I am more grieved than I can tell that this should have happened,"

she said, striving hard to restrain the sob in her voice, though it

gave her words the ring of genuine regret. "I little dreamed that

you thought of me in that way, Mr. Bower. But I can never marry

you--never, no matter what the circumstances! Surely you will help me

to dispel the memory of a foolish moment. It has been trying to both

of us. Let us pretend that it never was."

Had she struck him with a whip he could not have flinched so visibly

beneath the lash as from the patent honesty of her words. For a time

he did not answer, and the sudden calm that came quick on the heels of

frenzy had in it a weird peacefulness.

Neither could ever again forget the noisy rush of the stream, the glad

singing of birds in a thicket overhanging the bank, the tinkle of the

cow bells as the cattle began to climb to the pastures for a luxurious

hour ere sundown. It was typical of their lives that they should be

divided by the infant Inn, almost at its source, and that thenceforth

the barrier should become ever wider and deeper till it reached the

infinite sea.

He seemed to take his defeat well. He was pale, and his lips twitched

with the effort to attain composure. He looked at Helen with a hungry

longing that was slowly acknowledging restraint.

"I must have frightened you," he said, breaking a silence that was

growing irksome. "Of course I apologize for that. But we cannot leave

things where they are. If you must send me away from you, I may at

least demand a clear understanding. Have no fear that I shall distress

you further. May I join you, or will you walk to the bridge a little

higher up?"

"Let us return to the hotel," she protested.

"No, no. We are not children. We have broken no law of God or man. Why

should I be ashamed of having asked you to marry me, or you to listen,

even though it be such a hopeless fantasy as you say?"

Helen, deeply moved in his behalf, walked to a bridge of planks a

little distance up stream. Bower joined her there. He had deliberately

resolved to do a dastardly thing. If Spencer was the cause of Helen's

refusal, that obstacle, at any rate, could be smashed to a pulp.

"Now, Helen," he said, "I want you to believe that your happiness is

my only concern. Perhaps, at some other time, you may allow me to

renew in less abrupt manner the proposal I have made to-day. But when

you hear all that I have to tell, you will be forced to admit that I

placed your high repute above every other consideration in declaring

my love before, rather than after, you learned how and why you came to

Switzerland."

His manner was becoming more calm and judicial each moment. It reacted

on Helen, who gazed at him with a very natural surprise in her still

tear-laden eyes.

"That, at least, is simple enough," she cried.

"No. It is menacing, ugly, a trick calculated to wound you sorely.

When first it came to my ears I refused to credit the vile meanness of

it. You saw that telegram which reached my hands as we quitted the

hotel? It is a reply to certain inquiries I caused to be made in

London. Read it."

Helen took the crumpled sheets of thin paper and began to read. Bower

watched her face with a maleficent confidence that might have warned

her had she seen it. But she paid heed to nothing else at that moment

save the mysterious words scrawled in a foreign handwriting:

"Have investigated 'Firefly' incident fully. Pargrave

compelled Mackenzie to explain. The American, Charles K.

Spencer, recently residing at Embankment Hotel, is paying

Miss Helen Wynton's expenses, including cost of publishing

her articles. He followed her on the day of her departure,

and has since asked Mackenzie for introduction. Pargrave

greatly annoyed, and holds Mackenzie at your disposal.

"KENNETT."

Helen went very white; but she spoke with a firmness that was amazing,

even to Bower. "Who is Kennett?" she said.

"One of my confidential clerks."

"And Pargrave?"

"The proprietor of 'The Firefly.'"

"Did Millicent know of this--plot?"

"Yes."

Then she murmured a broken prayer. "Ah, dear Heaven!" she complained,

"for what am I punished so bitterly?"

Karl, the voluble and sharp-eyed, retailed a bit of gossip to Stampa

that evening as they smoked in Johann Klucker's chalet. "As I was

driving the cattle to the middle alp to-day, I saw our _fraeulein_ in

the arms of the big _voyageur_," he said.

Stampa withdrew his pipe from between his teeth. "Say that again," he

whispered, as though afraid of being overheard.

Karl did so, with fuller details.

"Are you sure?" asked Stampa.

Karl sniffed scornfully. "_Ach, Gott!_ How could I err?" he cried.

"There are not so many pretty women in the hotel that I should not

recognize our _fraeulein_. And who would forget Herr Bower? He gave me

two louis for a ten francs job. We must get them together on the hills

again, Christian. He will be soft hearted now, and pay well for taking

care of his lady."

"Yes," said Stampa, resuming his pipe. "You are right, Karl. There is

no place like the hills. And he will pay--the highest price, look you!

_Saperlotte!_ I shall exact a heavy fee this time."