"Good-bye!" replied Saunders, gripping his enemy's hand with a strong pressure. "I share your wish to the full. I regret that circumstances do not find us on the same side, but the fault is none of my making."
There was a momentary silence and in that silence was audible a peculiar humming, grinding roar, the penetrating music of granite bowls gliding over thick ice.
"What's that?" asked Trafford.
"Curling," replied Saunders. "A match on Major Flannel's rink."
"Where's that?" As much of Trafford's face as was visible under the bandage looked thoughtful.
"Two hundred yards above us in a hollow near the start of the bob-run. Why?"
"Nothing," said Trafford. "Only they ought to be warned that they are playing a dangerous game. A chance shot might convert a pleasant pastime into a black tragedy."
"I sent to warn them half an hour ago," replied Saunders, "but the sole reply was that they were having a most interesting match, and that they hoped I should have equally good sport."
Trafford laughed and gave his friend a final hand-grip.
"Good-bye, again," he said. "I respect your decision to stick to your post—but it is a pity,—a great pity."