“Yes, there were two,” he said, glancing at his telegram.  “Where were they seen?”

“High up, monsieur, on the rocks of the Blaitiere.  Here, Jules”; and in obedience to Michel’s summons, a young brown-bearded guide stepped out from the rest.  He lifted his hat and told his story: 

“It was on the Mer de Glace, monsieur, the day before yesterday.  I was bringing a party back from the Jardin, and just by the Moulin I saw two men very high up on the cliffs of the Blaitiere.  I was astonished, for I had never seen any one upon those cliffs before.  But I was quite sure.  None of my party could see them, it is true, but I saw them clearly.  They were perhaps two hundred feet below the ridge between the Blaitiere and the Grepon and to the left of the Col.”

“What time was this?”

“Four o’clock in the afternoon.”

“Yes,” said Chayne.  The story was borne out by the telegram.  Leaving Courmayeur early, Lattery and his guide would have slept the night on the rocks at the foot of the Blaitiere, they would have climbed all the next day and at four o’clock had reached within two hundred feet of the ridge, within two hundred feet of safety.  Somewhere within those last two hundred feet the fatal slip had been made; or perhaps a stone had fallen.

“For how long did you watch them?” asked Chayne.

“For a few minutes only.  My party was anxious to get back to Chamonix.  But they seemed in no difficulty, monsieur.  They were going well.”

Chayne shook his head at the hopeful words and handed his telegram to Michel Revailloud.

“The day before yesterday they were on the rocks of the Blaitiere,” he said.  “I think we had better go up to the Mer de Glace and look for them at the foot of the cliffs.”

“Monsieur, I have eight guides here and two will follow in the evening when they come home.  We will send three of them, as a precaution, up the Mer de Glace.  But I do not think they will find Monsieur Lattery there.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I believe Monsieur Lattery has made the first passage of the Col des Nantillons from the east,” he said, with a peculiar solemnity.  “I think we must look for them on the western side of the pass, in the crevasses of the Glacier des Nantillons.”

“Surely not,” cried Chayne.  True, the Glacier des Nantillons in places was steep.  True, there were the seracs—­those great slabs and pinnacles of ice set up on end and tottering, high above, where the glacier curved over a brow of rock and broke—­one of them might have fallen.  But Lattery and he had so often ascended and descended that glacier on the way to the Charmoz and the Grepon and the Plan.  He could not believe his friend had come to harm that way.

Michel, however, clung to his opinion.

“The worst part of the climb was over,” he argued.  “The very worst pitch, monsieur, is at the very beginning when you leave the glacier, and then it is very bad again half way up when you descend into a gully; but Monsieur Lattery was very safe on rock, and having got so high, I think he would have climbed the last rocks with his guide.”