"Why on earth did you ask that question?"

  "Oh, I don't know I just wondered."

  She shook her head firmly. "Like you, 1 sometimes try to catch scenery with a sketchbook, just to help recall some of the various beautiful lighting effects I've seen but ..." She laughed nervously and said, "The sketches are so crude that they couldn't possibly convey meaning to anyone except me. I never let anyone see them ... anyone."

  Merton Ostrander regarded her with smiling eyes. "I take it," he said, "that definitely includes me."

  "Everyone means everyone," Linda said.

  "Fair enough," Merton Ostrander told her, and started piloting the way up the trail.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ostrander kept up a running fire of comment about the people, their customs, the countryside and personalities. Trenton observed that Linda Carroll's eyes sharpened with interest.

  Ostrander, moreover, had natural talent as an actor, and as he described the various characters in the little village, occasionally mimicking a walk or a facial expression, he was able to ponray the people about whom he talked in such a way that the individuals seemed actually to be before them.

  The air was clear, crisp and cool. Linda seemed in no hurry and it was late afternoon when they returned to the inn. Marie, who waited on the dinner table, glided in and out of the room, a beautiful girl but apparently completely dazed by the sudden loss of her mother.

  M. Charteux, on the other hand, seemed to accept the situation philosophically. Yet there was about the little hostelry an atmosphere of brooding grief which made itself manifest in an underlying silence. Whenever conversation lagged, the clock made its ticking instantly and triumphantly audible.

  Rene Charteux reported that the car was now quite ready for the road and went to bed early. Marie followed after a few minutes, giving them all a courteous good night, but reserving for Merton Ostrander a worshipful glance as she quietly left the room.

  The next morning Ostrander held them entertained until after breakfast, when Marie went to town to do some minor shopping and then to visit at the house of a friend. It was then that Ostrander casually, and with the calm assurance which should properly have been the prerogative only of an old friend, suggested that he'd like to 'shove along' with them if they had the room.

  Linda hesitated, then, after a swift glance at Rob, said, "1 guess we could squeeze you in, but we're leaving almost at once."

  "That suits me perfectly," Ostrander said.

  "But you're ... well, you said you were almost one of the family here. Won't you want to wait and say goodbye?"

  Ostrander brushed the suggestion aside. "They know I have to leave some time. Frankly this atmosphere of gloom gets me down. As far as that's concerned, it's better to do it suddenly, get it over with and make a clean break. I loathe farewells."

  Rob Trenton, remembering that look which Marie Charteux had given Ostrander the night before, was surprised that Merton was so willing to leave the place before Marie returned. Linda Carroll, however, either noticed nothing out of the ordinary in Ostrander's haste, or sympathised with him.

  "Of course," she confided to Rob, "I can understand his feelings. 1 hate farewells myself. And there's a pall hanging over this place which you can cut with a knife. Even one night is enough for me. I'm sorry for them, but ... after all ..."

  Rob merely nodded.

  In fact Rob tried to delay their departure so that Marie would at least have a chance to return and say goodbye to the man, who, according to his own admission, had become 'one of the family'.

  However, Ostrander appeared with his belongings all packed and with such suspicious alacrity that Rob Trenton felt certain the process had started the night before.

  M. Charteux made no comment when he was advised that Ostrander was leaving. He seemed incapable of any emotion whatever, but lethargically went about the detail of computing the various bills. Ostrander paid his account, deposited his luggage on the roof and in the tonneau, until it seemed that the little car was overflowing with baggage, and hurriedly shook hands with his host, rattling out a farewell in French, patting the man's shoulder. Then, as tears appeared in Ren6 Charteux's eyes, Ostrander gave him a final clap on the back and climbed into the back seat of the little car.

  He was apologetic. "Didn't realise that I had so much stuff," he explained, with that disarming smile of his, "but if you can get me across the border with it, I'll express it to Marseilles and take the train."

  "You're sailing from Marseilles?" Linda asked.

  "Yes."

  "What ship?"

  "Well, now," he said good-naturedly, "that will depend largely on what cancellations show up. I'm getting back to the States on the first available ship."

  He made quite a ceremony of adjusting himself, doubling his long legs so that his knees seemed to be up under his chin, but quite obviously making no complaint. Rob Trenton assumed his customary position in the front seat, and the little car purred on up the grade with such smooth power that it seemed eager to get away from the inn and its atmosphere of tragedy

  From the back seat, Ostrander kept up a flow of conversation, pointing out little idiosyncrasies of the people, points of interest, bits of architecture which would otherwise have escaped them. Beyond question he was a very observing individual, with a penchant for pointing out and commenting on the quaint customs of a country.

  By the time they stopped for lunch, Ostrander's legs were badly cramped. He made a ludicrous show of being frozen into the position he had been forced to assume on the back seat, and so clever was his performance that even Rob was forced to laugh. However, the device had the desired effect and Linda insisted that he should alternate with Rob and sit in the front seat during the afternoon drive.

  So Rob Trenton found himself once more in the back seat, packed in with Merton Ostrander's collection of baggage, an attentive but enthusiastic audience, listening to Ostrander's comments.

  Having pointed out the manner in which the farmers built an inclined driveway up to the attic of the house, using it for storing hay, and thereby giving an insulation to the roof and the rooms below, Ostrander went on to comment about the distinctive Swiss cowbells.

  Rob was forced to admit that Ostrander really scored a point with this subject. Even Rob was interested.

  From time to time Linda stopped the car at Ostrander's suggestion and they listened to the musical cadences drifting up from some hillside pasture, knee deep with lush green grass.

  There was nothing harsh about these cowbells. They were designed to furnish a primitive rural harmony. From the deep, booming bell of the bull to the wistful little tinkle of the calf, the grazing cattle made a symphony of sound which seemed to blend with the natural beauty of the country.

  Ostrander pointed out that not only did the matched cadences of the cowbells furnish a harmony which was pleasing to the ear, but it enabled the owner to identify each grazing animal by the particular pitch of the bell. Should one of the animals be missing, the owner could detect not only that fact, but by the missing note in the musical scale could immediately determine the identity of the truant.

  Ostrander, it seemed, had made a hobby of Swiss cowbells, and said he had two large cartons filled with a collection which he hoped would be the basis for a series of informal talks that he intended to make before various clubs on his return to the United States.

  So plausible, so convincing and so charming was Ostrander's conversation, that Rob Trenton began to fight against becoming an inanimate chattel, a hundred and thirty-six pounds of weight to be distributed in the right rear of the car, balancing the boxes of cowbells which Ostrander had so painstakingly collected.

  lt was irritating to Rob to feel that he was forcing himself, trying desperately to invest himself with a cloak of conversational charm which was ill-fitting, but he was damned if he was going to sit there and let himself, as well as Linda, be carried away by Ostrander's magnetism. So he talked and the others listened - Ostrander politely, Linda with a little smile twitching at the corners of her mouth.

  Rob felt there was little of merit in what he had to say, but at least he had the satisfaction of knowing that, while he was talking, sheer politeness forced Merton Ostrander to be silent.

  Yet well before they had reached the border it was taken for granted by all concerned that Merton Ostrander was to go with them - at least as far as Paris.

  CHAPTER THREE

  At the hotel in Paris, Rob Trenton found himself sharing a double room with Menon Ostrander, and then, for the first time, realised the enormous amount of personal baggage which Ostrander had managed to pack into the little car.

  Not only were there the two canons of cowbells, as well as a steamer trunk loaded with personal belongings, but there was a heavy chest which Rob had at first thought contained painting materials. However, when Ostrander opened this box, it proved to be a complete set of tools, including an electric drill, files, wrenches and various other mechanical paraphernalia.

  All the morning Merton had been puttering around with his baggage, and then in the afternoon a telephone call summoned him to the floor below on a mission about which he did not see fit to consult Trenton.

  Ostrander did not immediately return and when Rob entered the bathroom he noticed there were smudges of oil on the washstand. A round, metallic shaving on the floor rolled beneath his foot. The place from which this shaving had dropped was a complete mystery.

  Rob decided Ostrander must have been drilling a hole in the frame of the mirror which hung over the washbowl. Then he realised that the shavings must have come from some other source.

  Ostrander returned about three o'clock in the afternoon and entered the bathroom almost immediately. He seemed annoyed that Rob had made such a meticulous job of cleaning up.

  . "You shouldn't have done that," he said somewhat impatiently. "You might have known I'd have returned and fixed things up."

  "You didn't tell me just when you were returning," Rob said.

  "I suppose I left something of a mess," Ostrander said. "I was oiling some tools."

  Rob said nothing.

  Ostrander walked over to the wastebasket, noticed the metal shaving, hesitated for a second or two, then explained. "I was trying out a drill bit. Linda wanted me to fasten the horn on the car more securely. It's been working loose. We're driving to Marseilles tomorrow and must get the car ready for loading. I wanted to be certain the drill was sharp."

  "You've secured your transportation?" Rob asked.

  "Just an hour or two ago," Ostrander said. "That's why I went dashing out. There was a chance to pick up a cancellation. I'm sailing an the same ship with you and Linda."

  "Oh," Rob said tonelessly, "that's nice."

  That night, about ten o'clock, Rob Trenton wakened from a sound sleep with a burning, metallic taste in the back of his throat. There were terrific pains across his abdomen, and even in the calves of his legs.

  During the violent illness and retching which followed, Merton Ostrander was a good Samaritan and big brother rolled into one. He was a solicitous nurse, reassuring, cheerful, optimistic and unbelievably helpful, putting hot compresses on Rob's stomach, assuring him that it undoubtedly had been the lobster salad at dinner. There had been a piece of tainted lobster in his own salad, Merton remembered, and for that reason he had pushed the whole thing aside. He had been tempted to warn Rob but, since Rob seemed to be enjoying the salad so much, he had refrained, thinking that the one piece of tainted lobster was perhaps only a left-over which had been included by accident.

  Rob, remembering that Linda had had a seafood cocktail, insisted that Ostrander should go down, knock on her door, and find out if she was all right.

  At first Ostrander ridiculed this suggestion, but finally agreed to give her a ring and when it appeared, after some ten minutes, that there was not the faintest possibility of the hotel switchboard answering, he agreed to run downstairs and tap on her door,

  Before he left, however, he opened his medicine kit, which he explained he always carried with him and gave Rob two large white capsules which he felt certain would settle Rob's stomach now that his system had rid itself of the tainted food.

  But a violent fit of retching caused Rob to slip the two capsules into the pocket of his dressing-gown, and then, after a few minutes when Merton Ostrander called through the bathroom door to ask him if the capsules were 'staying down', Rob, rather than waste his waning strength in argument, merely grunted an answer which Ostrander accepted as an affirmative.

  So then Ostrander went down to tap on Linda's door, and Rob, the two capsules still in the pocket of his dressing-gown, staggered over to the bed.

  Linda, it seemed, had not only failed to experience any disagreeable symptoms, but she took Rob's illness much more seriously than either of the two men. Appearing in housecoat and slippers, she insisted that they send for a taxi and rush Rob to the American hospital.

  Ostrander quite evidently felt this was a foolish measure as 'the worst was now over', and Rob, weak and shaken, disliked the idea of 'making a nuisance of himself'.

  Ostrander managed to delay matters by some thirty minutes, but in the end Linda had her way, and Rob found himself bundled into a taxi which Linda had somehow managed to find, and transported to the American hospital, where a young doctor listened to his symptoms and prescribed remedies which Rob felt were merely cumulative.

  The upshot of this treatment, however, was that Rob, still weak and sore the next morning, was forced to say goodbye to Linda and Merton Ostrander as they started out in the little car for Marseilles.

  Ostrander, with genial optimism, patted Rob's shoulder and assured him he would be able to join them on the boat by catching the night train from Paris.

  The doctor gravely shook his head, and for a moment Rob thought there was a hint of moisture in Linda's eyes as she turned towards the door, but she waved to him as casually as though she expected to see him again within the next hour or two.

  That night Rob was still weak with pain, and the doctor seemed genuinely puzzled to account for his condition. The medical ukase definitely and finally forbade Rob to take the night train and the boat was due to sail the next afternoon at four o'clock.

  In Rob's weakened condition, it seemed that the bottom had dropped out of everything. He managed to dictate a telegram to Linda, wishing her bon voyage, and, after some hesitation, included Merton Ostrander in the wire. Then he settled back miserably and tried to fight the black waves of disappointment. The next morning, experiencing a sudden definite resolution, he overcame his vertigo and nausea long enough to pack the necessities of travel, stagger to a taxicab, and catch a plane which deposited him in Marseilles thirty minutes before sailing time. As he wobbled up the gangplank, feeling more dead than

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Rob at first shared a stateroom with a quiet, taciturn individual who apparently disliked Rob's company, because the second day out this man was transferred to another cabin and a new room¬mate named Harvey Richmond, a broad shouldered, genial chap, moved into the room to occupy berth 'B'.

  Almost from the start, Trenton found himself drawn to Richmond, and Richmond, in turn, seemed keenly interested in everything Rob had to say - about his European trip, particularly.

  "How does it happen you're not sharing a room with Ostrander?" Richmond asked.

  "Ostrander," Rob explained, "picked up a last-minute cancellation."

  "I see. Still, those things can be arranged. A certain shuffling around, you know."

  "I'm still under the weather," Rob admitted. "I can't seem to get any strength back. Ostrander is one of those athletic chaps who seems to get everything out of life as he goes along. I don't think he's interested in being tied up with an invalid."

  Richmond threw back his head and laughed. "Invalid, my eye! You're a tough, wiry individual, and you can't help it if you had food poisoning. After all, anyone can run into an experience like that. It must have been quite a jolt."

  "It was," Rob said. "Worst experience I've ever had and I can't seem to get back on my feet."

  Richmond deftly turned the conversation to Ostrander. "You say he's interested in sketching?"

  "Sketching and cowbells."

  "What about the cowbells?"

  "It's something that you might not notice unless your attention happened to be drawn to it," Rob explained. "The Swiss cowbells are a distinctive bit of local colour. Their sound is exceedingly musical. Ostrander has a nice collection."

  "I didn't know that," Richmond replied. "Now you just stretch out there and take life easy. Here, let me cover you with this blanket. Keep good and warm. Here's a book you might like to read. The main thing you have to do is get your strength back. You say that he brought a collection of cowbells with him?"

  "That's right, some distinctive bells with different tones."

  "Where are they now?"

  "In his baggage, I suppose. He may have them in his stateroom."

  "I'm interested," Richmond said, "but I don't want him to think I'm too inquisitive, particularly if he's intending to use them as a prop in a series of lectures. By the way, Trenton, you don't remember the name of this inn where you were staying, do you?"

  "No, 1 don't. It was above Interlaken and that's ..."

  "Yes, yes, 1 understand. You told me about the general location. I was wondering if you remembered the name."

  "No, 1 can't remember it."

  "You say there had been a tragedy?"

  "That's right. The woman who ran the place had died from eating toadstools."

  "You didn't by any chance hear anyone describe the symptoms of her illness, did you?"