Steimathen had quickly discovered, by the remains of a fire in the stove, that somebody had preceded them; but this fact he had not happened to name to the girls.
One of the two men, out of sight in the loft, was Robert Royston, now abroad for his short summer holiday. The other, strange to say, was actually Lancelot Dennis Ivor himself—with whom Bee had been thrown during her three weeks' visit to her aunts.
Bee had known, and had not forgotten, that he was an adept at mountaineering. Nay, it was he who had advised her to do a little scrambling in this very district, when she had mentioned her hope of a visit to Switzerland in the summer. She did not dream of coming across him, since he had said that Switzerland this year would be for him an impossibility, on account of certain engagements. Plans had changed, however; and here he was in company with his old college friend, Robert Royston.
At table d'hôte the evening before, though Robert alluded to his proposed ascent, he did not speak of the Hut; and she failed to deduce the fact that he and his friend were likely to sleep there. Neither did he utter his friend's name. Possibly, had Patricia not appeared just when she did, drawing off everybody's attention, he might have done either; in which case she and Amy would have been upon their guard. As things were, they had not the smallest suspicion that any human being was within earshot—the guide and his son being quite cut off by the solid wall of the Hut.
Voices under the open loft-window aroused Ivor from a light sleep. Not for some time fully. He lay in semi-consciousness—vaguely wishing that he had not been disturbed, envying the calm slumber of Rob, hearing partly as in a dream what was said, and regarding the same with the uncritical detachment and indifference of a dreamer.
The soft tones of one speaker sounded familiar; and though he was too far gone to attach a name, they transported him in imagination to Wratt-Wrothesley; and he saw himself again wandering through the lovely grounds with Bee.
A girlish argument of some sort seemed to be going on; and he took a drowsy dislike to Amy, as he rolled over and tried to forget himself once more.
Then the sounds grew clearer, more definite. That gentle-voiced girl was being pestered—worried—and he felt a touch of indignation. It dawned upon him that he was listening to something not meant for his ears; and he was rousing himself to give a loud cough of warning, when—
"Much better confess that your poor little heart has been taken captive," checked him abruptly, with a feeling that the listening girl must not know what he had heard. Then came the name of the place where he had met Bee Major, and his own name following.
In a moment he was wide awake. In a moment also he had the blankets over his ears, shutting out further sounds.