It was horrible. 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. On that night,—that fatal night,—Winifred crushed all the hopes that were rising in my heart. The kindly American consul-general had himself taken her to the bank, where her banknotes had been exchanged for a letter of credit, and had thoroughly advised her. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. He entered the room with his usual deliberation, and looked covertly about him. Something in her voice and manner conveyed an effect of unwonted gravity to him. I think John 42 will be there.
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