Part 7 As they came back from that day’s climb—it was up the Mittaghorn—they had to cross a shining space of wet, steep rocks between two grass slopes that needed a little care. Young, not much older than she was: she was twenty and he was possibly twenty-four. He had barely settled at his desk in his library, when he was disturbed by two morning callers. Well, he was executed for murder. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed.
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