“Monsieur,” he said, and Chayne looked
at him with dull eyes like a man dazed.
“There is something which Francois noticed,
which he wished me to tell you. Francois is a
good lad. He wishes you to know that your friend
died at once—there was no sign of a movement.
He lay in the bottom of the crevasse in some snow
which was quite smooth. The guide—he
had kicked a little with his feet in the snow—but
your friend had died at once.”
“Thank you,” said Chayne, without the
least emotion in his voice. But he walked with
uneven steps. At times he staggered like one overdone
and very tired. But once or twice he said, as
though he were dimly aware that he had his friend’s
reputation to defend:
“You see he didn’t slip on the ice, Michel.
You were quite wrong. It was the avalanche.
It was no fault of his.”
“I was wrong,” said Michel, and he took
Chayne by the arm lest he should fall; and these two
men came long after the others into Chamonix.
MR. JARVICE
The news of Lattery’s death was telegraphed
to England on the same evening. It appeared the
next morning under a conspicuous head-line in the
daily newspapers, and Mr. Sidney Jarvice read the item
in the Pullman car as he traveled from Brighton to
his office in London. He removed his big cigar
from his fat red lips, and became absorbed in thought.
The train rushed past Hassocks and Three Bridges and
East Croydon. Mr. Jarvice never once looked at
his newspaper again. The big cigar of which the
costliness was proclaimed by the gold band about its
middle had long since gone out, and for him the train
came quite unexpectedly to a stop at the ticket platform
on Battersea Bridge.
Mr. Jarvice was a florid person in his looks and in
his dress. It was in accordance with his floridness
that he always retained the gold band about his cigar
while he smoked it. He was a man of middle age,
with thick, black hair, a red, broad face, little
bright, black eyes, a black mustache and rather prominent
teeth. He was short and stout, and drew attention
to his figure by wearing light-colored trousers adorned
with a striking check. From Victoria Station
he drove at once to his office in Jermyn Street.
A young and wizened-looking clerk was already at work
in the outer room.
“I will see no one this morning, Maunders,”
said Mr. Jarvice as he pressed through.
“Very well, sir. There are a good number
of letters,” replied the clerk.
“They must wait,” said Mr. Jarvice, and
entering his private room he shut the door. He
did not touch the letters upon his table, but he went
straight to his bureau, and unlocking a drawer, took
from it a copy of the Code Napoleon. He studied
the document carefully, locked it up again and looked
at his watch. It was getting on toward one o’clock.
He rang the bell for his clerk.
“Maunders,” he said, “I once asked
you to make some inquiries about a young man called
Walter Hine.”
