The voice impressed me as strongly as the face; it was subdued
and restrained, the voice of a man undergoing great mental suffering.

"You will find Paris bleak at this season of the year," I continued,
longing to make him talk. "It was colder there last winter than
in London."

"I do not stay in Paris," he replied, "save to breakfast."

"Indeed; that is my case. I am going on to Bale."

"And I also," he said, "and further yet."

Then he turned his face to the window, and would say no more. My
speculations regarding him multiplied with his taciturnity. I felt
convinced that he was a man with a romance, and a desire to know
its nature became strong in me. We breakfasted apart at Paris,
but I watched him into his compartment for Bale, and sprang in after
him. During the first part of our journey we slept; but, as we
neared the Swiss frontier, a spirit of wakefulness took hold of us,
and fitful sentences were exchanged. My companion, it appeared,
intended to rest but a single day at Bale. He was bound for far-away
Alpine regions, ordinarily visited by tourists during the summer
months only, and, one would think, impassable at this season of the year.

"And you go alone?" I asked him. "You will have no companions to
join you?"

"I shall have guides," he answered, and relapsed into meditative silence.