The door banged. Alfred Haine who runs a little inn in the village of Marche-les-Dames looked up just at dinner time to see a man in tweeds, very pale, very breathless, but despite his nervousness, very polite.
"Please may I use your telephone?" he asked. "My friend, my friend was climbing the cliffs. He seems to be lost. Perhaps he has had an accident. Please, I must telephone at once to Brussels."
"But of course," said M. Haine. The man in tweeds put through his call and darted out into the night again. An...
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