A little inn flying a Swiss flag nestles under a great rock, and there they put aside their knapsacks and lunched and rested in the mid-day shadow of the gorge and the scent of resin. I must tell somebody—and you would understand. Raymond Plote would only be missed by his mother. She blushed prettily, and in a moment regained command of her tongue. I wonder why on earth the curtains are drawn. “This is MY thing,” said Ann Veronica, softly, with thoughtful eyes upon him. “Why did you do it?” her aunt urged. And, turning to his daughter, he gave the necessary directions in a low tone. "A missioner! That illuminates everything.
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