Chapter VI A QUESTION OF IDENTIFICATION The little man with the closely-cropped beard and hair looked at her keenly through his gold eye-glasses. Mike sat down, his body too large for the petite blue couch. She could hardly remember his face except for his brown hair, thick lips, and narrow dark eyes. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. " "Respecting Thames Darrell?" observed Jack. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. “You must answer me, Annabel,” she continued. “One day,” he resumed, “we will start off early and come down into Kandersteg and up these zigzags and here and here, and so past this Daubensee to a tiny inn—it won’t be busy yet, though; we may get it all to ourselves—on the brim of the steepest zigzag you can imagine, thousands of feet of zigzag; and you will sit and eat lunch with me and look out across the Rhone Valley and over blue distances beyond blue distances to the Matterhorn and Monte Rosa and a long regiment of sunny, snowy mountains. The infant was rescued from a watery-grave by an honest mechanic, who has since brought him up as his own son. "He says he don't understand flash," replied the lady in gentleman's attire. "There is nobody else.
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