r. She
had been vouchsafed a glimpse into an abyss profound as that into
which Stampa himself peered on the day he discovered three of the
four who fell from the Matterhorn still roped together in death. The
old man's simple references to the terrors lurking in those radiant
mountains had also shaken her somewhat. The snow capped Cima di Rosso
no longer looked so attractive. The Orlegna Gorge had lost some of its
beauty. Though the sun was pouring into its wooded depths, it had
grown gloomy and somber in her eyes. Yielding to impulse, she loitered
in the village, took the carriage road to the chateau, and sat there,
with her back to the inner heights and her gaze fixed on the smiling
valley that opened toward Italy out of the Septimer Pass.

Meanwhile, Stampa hurried past the stables, where his horses were
munching the remains of the little oaten loaves which form the staple
food of hard worked animals in the Alps. He entered the hotel by the
main entrance, and was on his way to the manager's bureau, when
Spencer, smoking on the veranda, caught sight of him.

Instantly the American started in pursuit. By this time he had heard
of Helen's accident from one of yesterday's passers by. It accounted
for the delay; but he was anxious to learn exactly what had happened.

Stampa reached the office first. He was speaking to the manager, when
Spencer came in and said in his downright way:

"This is the man who drove Miss Wynton from St. Moritz last night. I
don't suppose I shall be able to understand what he says. Will you
kindly ask him what caused the trouble?"

"It is quite an easy matter," was the smiling response. "Poor Stampa
is not only too eager to pass every other vehicle on the road, but he
is inclined to watch the mountains rather than his horses' ears. He
was a famous guide once; but he met with misfortune, and took to
carriage work as a means of livelihood. He has damaged his turnout
twice this year; so this morning he was dismissed by telephone, and
another driver is coming from St. Moritz to take his place."

Spencer looked at Stampa. He liked the strong, worn face, with its
half wistful, half resigned expression. An uneasy feeling gripped him
that the whim of a moment in the Embankment Hotel might exert its
crazy influence in quarters far removed from the track that seemed
then to be so direct and pleasure-giving.

"Why did he want to butt in between the other fellow and the
landscape? What was the hurry,