They were talking in groups; some of them leaned upon ice-axes, some carried _Ruecksacks_ upon their backs, as though upon the point of starting for the hills.

As he held the photograph a little nearer to the lamp, and bent his head a little lower, Kenyon made a slight uneasy movement.

But Chayne did not notice.
He sat very still, with his eyes fixed upon the photograph.

On the outskirts of the group stood Sylvia's father.

Younger, slighter of build, with a face unlined and a boyish grace which had long since gone--but undoubtedly Sylvia's father.
The contours of the mountains told Chayne clearly enough in what valley the hotel stood.
"This is Zermatt," he said, without lifting his eyes.
"Yes," replied Kenyon, quietly, "a Zermatt you are too young to know," and then Chayne's forefinger dropped upon the figure of Sylvia's father.
"Who is this ?" he asked.
Kenyon made no answer.
"It is Gabriel Strood," Chayne continued.
There was a pause, and then Kenyon confirmed the guess.
"Yes," he said, and some hint of emotion in his voice made Chayne lift his eyes.