Brother Jack had been sitting before the fire in their little sitting-room when Benny came tumbling in. His face was very pale and his eyes wide open. It was true that he had fainted when the signal-gun announced his brother’s victory, and the reaction of joy could be detected in the quiver of his lips and his restless hands. Had he been a Frenchman he would have kissed Benny on both cheeks prior to a flourish of words in which platitudes of sentiment abounded. But as it was, he just stood up and cried, "Hallo, Benny!" while Benny said, "Hallo, Jack!" and came and slapped him on the shoulder. The others in the room at this time were at the Abbé Villari, Harry Clavering and the doctor, and these three stood apart that the brothers might talk. "I thought you were done, Benny, old boy. I heard the engine down the valley, and thought you’d miss us. How did you manage it? How did you do it, old fellow?" "That’s what I’m asking myself, Jack. I must have done it, or these people wouldn’t be making such a noise. Luck, I suppose. I thought I was a good ten miles from the place when I came down. Well, I suppose I wasn’t, and that’s all." Jack laughed. The colour was returning to his cheeks. "It’s not all by a long way, Benny. You flew right over our heads just as though you were making a bee line. Not that it mattered. What you had to do was to get back to the starting-point, and here you are. Come and warm yourself, old boy. You’re stiff with the cold." Benny agreed to that. "Never was so cold in all my life, Jack. You could cut me up in lengths, if you liked! I’ve had a hard time, old boy—a d——d hard time! And now it’s over, eh? Well, that’s something; and if none of you mind, I think I’ll go to bed for a spell. Dr. Orange would prescribe that, I know. Just a snooze, doctor, eh, and a drop of something warm!" He turned and went up the little staircase to his bedroom. Jack and the doctor following. The crowd was still gathered about the house, and from time to time it cheered lustily; but when Dr. Orange went out and said the aviator was resting, the people drew back respectfully, while the gendarmes posted sentries before the chalet, and forbade anyone to approach it. Among them was the little gendarme, Philip, waiting impatiently for his chief’s permission to go into Italy. * * * * * * * It had been arranged that the cheque for ten thousand pounds should be handed over by Sir John Perinder, the proprietor of the _Daily Recorder_, at a banquet to be given at the Palace Hotel at seven o’clock that night. Lavish according to his habit, Sir John invited all the residents at the hotel to be his guests, and prepared also a high table at which the victor might meet his intimates.