"Mrs. Brutt—generally. She is a good walker; only to-day she is not well. But she doesn't care for scrambling; and I just love it. I've always loved any bit of climbing I could get hold of. And really I like going about alone. One sees so much more. And I'm beginning to find that I can make myself understood a little." "You must be very very careful," he repeated, and he looked serious. As before, they chatted without effort, one topic leading to another. And, as before, she had the sense of being drawn out, played upon, manipulated, made the best of. It was a delightful sensation. She was astonished presently to find that she had been more than an hour at table. "It is getting late. I ought to go," she said. "Have you seen any of these?" He drew from his pocket a supply of post-card views, came round to her side, and took Mrs. Brutt's vacant chair. "They are rather good." Doris glanced through them with interest. "I've got some,—but not all." A letter, which he had pulled from his pocket with the cards, fell on the table; and without intention she caught sight of the address— "R. R. Mau—" The rest was hidden by a post-card, but a movement of his arm brushed the latter inadvertently aside, and she saw the whole— "R. R. Maurice, Esquire." He thrust it carelessly into his pocket, and she did not feel impelled to apologise for having seen what he had allowed to lie just before her eyes. "So now I know his name—Mr. Maurice!" she said to herself. Aloud she asked: "Are you going to take a long walk?" "Some letters have to be written first. Then I'm going for a lengthy ramble up the valley. Not likely to be back till evening." "Is it to be jour maigre with you?" "I take a few sandwiches. That's enough for me." CHAPTER XVI The Cry from the Châlet DORIS walked down the village street, more than half lost in a dream. She had forgotten all about Mrs. Brutt and the visit to her room. The last hour had swept such recollections out of her head. And, as if she had not already enough to fill her thoughts, when she left the breakfast-table the post came in, bringing a letter from Hamilton Stirling. This was a typical Swiss mountain village, some three thousand five hundred feet above the sea-level, straggling along the side of a deep valley. Picturesque châlets were intermingled with houses of a more prosaic stamp; and there were little primitive shops, as well as hotels. Visitors abounded, chiefly Swiss and French, together with an admixture of Germans and Russians, and a few English. The letter from Hamilton felt uncomfortable in her hand, as she walked; and she was in no haste to open it. She wondered whether she ought to have been glad to see his writing; and she came to the conclusion that she was not—very—glad. Going more slowly, she tore the envelope, pulled out the sheet, and at a glance saw—