of an accident. Nevertheless, cunning is often a quality in a mind that
has gone wrong.

Mrs. Bodman well knew how much her presence afflicted her husband, but
her nature was as relentless as his, and her hatred of him was, if
possible, more bitter than his hatred of her. Wherever he went she
accompanied him, and perhaps the idea of murder would never have
occurred 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.