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late that I hardly hoped for it."

Michel replied with some embarrassment:

"I do not climb with every one, monsieur. I hoped perhaps that one of my
old patrons would want me. So I waited."

Chayne looked round the platform for his friend.

"And Monsieur Lattery?" he asked.

The guide's face lit up.

"Monsieur Lattery? Is he coming too? It will be the old days once more."

"Coming? He is here now. He wrote to me from Zermatt that he
would be here."

Revailloud shook his head.

"He is not in Chamonix, monsieur."

Chayne experienced his second disappointment that morning, and it quite
chilled him. He had come prepared to walk the heights like a god in the
perfection of enjoyment for just six weeks. And here was his guide grown
old; and his friend, the comrade of so many climbs, so many bivouacs
above the snow-line, had failed to keep his tryst.

"Perhaps there will be a letter from him at Couttet's," said Chayne, and
the two men walked through the streets to the hotel. There was no letter,
but on the other hand there was a telegram. Chayne tore it open.

"Yes it's from Lattery," he said, as he glanced first at the signature.
Then he read the telegram and his face grew very grave. Lattery


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