How to stand upon an ice-slope, how to hold her ax--she had known.

On the rocks, too! Which foot to advance, with which hand to grasp the hold--she had known.
Suppose that knowledge _had_ been born in her! Why, then those words of her guide began to acquire significance.

She had reminded him of some one--some one whose name he could not remember--but some one with whom years ago he had climbed.

And then upon the rocks, some chance movement of Sylvia's, some way in which she moved from ledge to ledge, had revealed to him the name--Gabriel Strood.
Was it possible, Chayne asked?
If so, what dark thing was there in the record of Strood's life that he must change his name, disappear from the world, and avoid the summer nights, the days of sunshine and storm on the high rock-ledges and the ice-slope?
Chayne was minded to find an answer to that question.

Sylvia was in trouble; that house under the downs was no place for her.