d to him if she had not been so persistent in forcing her
presence upon him at all times and on all occasions. So, when he
announced to her that he intended to spend the month of July in
Switzerland, she said nothing, but made her preparations for the
journey. On this occasion he did not protest, as was usual with him,
and so to Switzerland this silent couple departed.

There is an hotel near the mountain-tops which stands on a ledge over
one of the great glaciers. It is a mile and a half above the level of
the sea, and it stands alone, reached by a toilsome road that zigzags
up the mountain for six miles. There is a wonderful view of snow-peaks
and glaciers from the verandahs of this hotel, and in the neighbourhood
are many picturesque walks to points more or less dangerous.

John Bodman knew the hotel well, and in happier days he had been
intimately acquainted with the vicinity. Now that the thought of murder
arose in his mind, a certain spot two miles distant from this inn
continually haunted him. It was a point of view overlooking everything,
and its extremity was protected by a low and crumbling wall. He arose
one morning at four o'clock, slipped unnoticed out of the hotel, and
went to this point, which was locally named the Hanging Outlook. His
memory had served him well. It was exactly the spot, he said to
himself. The mountain which rose up behind it was wild and precipitous.
There were no inhabitants near to overlook the place. The distant hotel
was hidden by a shoulder of rock. The mountains on the other side of
the valley were too far away to make it possible for any casual tourist
or native to see what was going on on the Hanging Outlook. Far down in
the valley the only town in view seemed like a collection of little toy
houses.

One glance over the crumbling wall at the edge was generally sufficient
for a visitor of even the strongest nerves. There was a sheer drop of
more than a mile straight down, and at the distant bottom were jagged
rocks and stunted trees that looked, in the blue haze, like shrubbery.

"This is the spot," said the man to himself, "and to-morrow morning is
the time."

John Bodman had planned his crime as grimly and relentlessly, and as
coolly, as ever he had concocted a deal on the Stock Exchange. There
was no thought in his mind of mercy for his unconscious victim. His
hatred had carried him far.

The next morning after breakfast, he said to his wife: "I intend to
take a walk in