But he must live.

Dead, he threatened ruin and dishonor, and since from the beginning Sylvia and he had shared--for so she would have it--had shared in the effort to save this life, it would be well for them, he thought that they should not fail.
The long hot day drew to an end, and at last from the platform at the end of the electric train they saw the snow-fields lift toward the soaring peaks, and the peaks purple with the after glow stand solitary and beautiful against the evening sky.
"At last!" said Sylvia, with a catch in her breath, and the clasp of her hand tightened upon her husband's arm.

But Chayne was remembering certain words once spoken to him in a garden of Dorsetshire, by a man who lay idly in a hammock and stared up between the leaves.

"On the most sunny day, the mountains hold in their recesses mystery and death." "You know where your father is staying ?" Chayne asked.
"He wrote from the Hotel de l'Arve," Sylvia replied.
"We will stay at Couttet's and walk over to see him this evening," said Chayne, and after dinner they strolled across the little town.

But at the Hotel de l'Arve they found neither Garratt Skinner nor his friend, Walter Hine.
"Only the day before yesterday," said the proprietor, "they started for the mountains.