It sounded like a problem in mental arithmetic, but I thanked my stars that there seemed no further need for me to struggle over its solution.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER VIII

The Making of a Mystery

“There was the secret . . . 
Hid in . . . grey, young eyes.” 
—­ALICE MEYNELL.

“Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more.” 
—­WALT WHITMAN.

In my opinion it is a sign of strength rather than of weakness, to change one’s mind with a good grace.  For my part, I find pleasure in the experience, feeling refreshed by it, as if I had had a bath, and got into clean linen after a hot walk.  Changing the mind gives also somewhat the same sensation as waking in the morning with the consciousness that no one on earth has ever seen this day before; or the satisfaction one has on breaking an egg, the inside of which no human eye has beheld until that moment.  A change of mind bestows on one for the time being a new Ego; therefore I did not grudge myself my delight in the once despised Rhone Valley.  Nevertheless, I was glad that the Mule of Brig had been one with which I could conscientiously decline to associate.  My resolve not to take a pack-mule there had become so fixed, that to have uprooted it would have seemed a confession of failure.  Besides, the need to go on to Martigny had given an excuse for another day with Jack, Molly, and Mercedes.

I had been as happy as a man whose duty it is to be broken-hearted, may dare to be.  But the next morning came at Martigny, and with my bath the news that the five promised men with their five mules awaited my choice.

I had secretly hoped that the day might be mule-less till evening, for in that case Jack and Molly would probably stay on, and I should not be left alone in the world until to-morrow.

However, it was not to be.  I gave myself the satisfaction of keeping the mules waiting, on the principle of always doing unto others what they have done unto you; and after a leisurely toilet, I went down to hold the review.

Four men, with four mules, started forward eagerly, jostling each other, at sight of me accompanied by the landlord.  But one held back a little, with a modest dignity, as if he were too proud to push himself into notice, or too generous to exalt himself at the expense of others.  He was a slim, dark man of middle height, past thirty in age, perhaps, with a look of the soldier in the bearing of his shoulders and head.  He had very short black hair; high cheekbones, where the rich brown of his skin was touched with russet; deep-set, thoughtful eyes, and a melancholy droop of the moustache.  His collar was incredibly tall and shiny, with turn-down points; he wore a red tie; his thick brown clothes might have been bought ready made in the Edgeware Road; evidently he had honoured the occasion with his Sunday best.  While his comrades jabbered together, in patois which flung