“You’re not aiming to run away?” Penny asked uneasily.
“Only for an hour or so. This snow is too beautiful to waste. But you’ll have to help me get back to my prison.”
“I don’t know what this is all about. Suppose you tell me, Sara.”
“Oh, Grandfather is funny,” replied the girl, digging in the closet again for her woolen gloves. “He doesn’t trust me out of his sight when there’s snow on the ground. Today he had to go up the mountain to get a load of wood so he locked me in.”
“What has snow to do with it?”
“Why, everything! You must have heard about Grandfather. He hates skiing.”
“Oh, and you like to ski,” said Penny, “is that it?”
“I adore it! My father, Bret Jasko, was a champion.” Sara’s animated face suddenly became sober. “He was killed on this very mountain. Grandfather never recovered from the shock.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” murmured Penny sympathetically.
“It happened ten years ago while my father was skiing. Ever since then Grandfather has had an almost fanatical hatred of the hotel people. And he is deathly afraid I’ll get hurt in some way. He forbids me to ski even on the easy slopes.”