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A little inn flying a Swiss flag nestles under a great rock, and there they put aside their knapsacks and lunched and rested in the mid-day shadow of the gorge and the scent of resin. . ’ ‘What is all this about your proof?’ demanded Roding, diverted. ‘No, no, I am convinced your very first theory was right. It is like a second honeymoon. She was to fall back amongst the ruck, a young woman of talent, content perhaps to earn a scanty living by painting Christmas cards, or teaching at a kindergarten. My only excuse is that I missed my way here, and I am leaving Paris early to-morrow morning.
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