Chamonix was crowded and gay with lights.

In the little square just out of sight upon the right, some traveling musicians were singing, and up and down the street the visitors thronged noisily.

Women in light-colored evening frocks, with lace shawls thrown about their shoulders and their hair; men in attendance upon them, clerks from Paris and Geneva upon their holidays; and every now and then a climber with his guide, come late from the mountains, would cross the bridge quickly and stride toward his hotel.

Chayne watched the procession in silence quite aloof from its light-heartedness and gaiety.

Michel Revailloud drained his glass of beer, and, as he replaced it on the table, said wistfully: "So this is the last night, monsieur.