“It did not,” Lucy agreed, with a hard, fixed look.  “I—­you see, Lawrence was my lover—­I spent two or three hours in agonizing suspense.  I knew what I should feel when I stopped, but couldn’t go on with the others, because I might have kept them back.  It was freezing hard and now and then a little snow fell, but I scarcely noticed this; I was listening, as I hope I shall never listen again.  Sometimes the ice cracked and a snow-bridge fell into the crevasse, but that was all, and afterwards the silence was awful.  It seemed as if the men would never come.  I couldn’t go to meet them because of the crevasse; I dream about the horrible black opening yet.  Lawrence was on the other side, out of my reach; he might be slowly freezing on the couloir, and I couldn’t help.  But I knew he was suffering for Walters’ negligence or perhaps his treachery.”

Foster made a sign of sympathetic comprehension.  “You hate him for this?”

“Yes,” said Lucy frankly; “but not altogether because I’m vindictive.  The man who could make people suffer as Lawrence and I did ought to be punished.”

“He ought.  Well, I’m going to warn Lawrence, and no doubt the proper thing would be to be satisfied with this, but somehow I’m not.  You see, Walters probably doesn’t know we suspect him.”

The girl’s eyes narrowed and Foster knew she was afraid, but did not think fear was her strongest emotion.

“You mean he may try again?”

“That is what I mean.  If he comes back, you must watch him, but keep him here until I arrive.  If it’s impossible for me to come, send for the police.”

“Yes,” said Lucy quietly, “I’ll try.”

“There’s another risk,” said Foster.  “He may send an accomplice; they’re a well-organized gang.  In this matter, I’d sooner trust you than Lawrence.”  He stopped for a moment and gave her an apologetic glance.  “Perhaps I’ve done wrong to alarm and put this heavy load on you.”

“No,” she said resolutely.  “I have promised to marry Lawrence and must help him.”

Then she rose and gave Foster her hand.  “I must thank you for your confidence.  If the need comes, I don’t think I’ll fail you.”

Foster felt satisfied when she left him.  Lucy was clever and had pluck.  He had given her a hard part, but she would not shrink.  One could trust a woman who was fighting for her lover.

After breakfast next morning, Mrs. Stephen showed Foster some photographs of the mountains, in one or two of which Lucy and Lawrence had a place, and he asked:  “Have you a portrait of Walters?”

“No; the man who took these was staying here, and one day asked Walters to join the group he was posing, but he refused.”

“How did he get out of it?”

Lawrence, who had come in with Lucy, laughed.  “Rather neatly.  Said he was a modest sentimentalist and would sooner leave his memory printed on our hearts!”