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Is she not my good angel? Has she not drawn me back from the gate of hell? Risk her life! Are people saying that because a worm-eaten wheel went to pieces against a stone?" "What on earth is he talking about?" demanded Spencer. "Has he been pestering Miss Wynton this morning with some story of his present difficulties?" The manager knew Stampa's character. He put the words in kindlier phrase.
But they clung everywhere, and the sable rocks were taking unto themselves a new garment. "Vorwärtz!" rang out Stampa's trumpet like call, and Barth leaped down into the moraine. Barth, a good man on ice and rock, was not a genius among guides. Faced by an apparently unscalable rock wall, or lost in a wilderness of séracs, he would never guess the one way that led to success.
That such a man, strong in the power of his wealth and social position, should even dream of blotting out the past by a crime, offered the clearest proof of the frenzy that possessed him as soon as he recognized Etta Stampa's father. Not one word of his personal belief crossed Spencer's lips during the talk with the guide.
He was thinking that Stampa's marriage service was not so futile, after all. It had soon erected its first barrier. Millicent, who had qualities rare in a woman, turned and looked at a clock. Incidentally, she discovered that Spencer was devoting some attention to the proceedings at her table. Still Bower remained silent. She stole a glance at him.
He bowed gracefully, with a hint of the foreign air she had noted once before. "I would have brought you safely out of greater perils," he said; "but every dog has his day, and this is Stampa's." "En route!" cried the guide impatiently. He loathed the sight of Bower standing there, smiling and courteous, in the presence of one whom he regarded as a Heaven-sent friend and protectress.
His whole attitude might be explained by the fact that he was Stampa's employer, and had won the old guide's confidence. Yes, the American was the real danger. That pale ghost conjured from the grave by Stampa was intangible, powerless, a dreamlike wraith evoked by a madman's fancy. Already the fear engendered myopia of the morning was passing from Bower's eyes.
"But Stampa's promised lecture appears to have ended?" "I think it never began. It is a safe bet that Mr. Bower and he have not exchanged a word since our last halt." Helen laughed. "A genuine case of Greek meeting Greek," she said. "Stampa is an excellent guide, I am sure; but Mr. Bower does really know these mountains. I suppose anyone is liable to err in forecasting Alpine weather."
See that you treat her well and make her life happy! She is worthy of all your love, and I suppose she loves you, whereas I might have striven for years to win her affection and then failed in the end." Late that night Spencer arrived at the Maloja. Helen was waiting for him, as he had telephoned the hour he might be expected. Rumor had brought the news of Stampa's death and Bower's accident.
Were it to begin to snow at once, I could still bring you unharmed to the chalets." Josef Barth had borne Stampa's reproaches with surly deference; but he refused to be degraded in this fashion before Karl, too, whose tongue wagged so loosely. "That is the talk of a foolish boy, not of a man," he cried wrathfully. "Am I not fitted, then, to take mademoiselle home after bringing her here?"
Helen attributed Stampa's low hiss to a tardy recognition of Bower's fame as a mountaineer. Though the hour was noon, the light was feeble. Veritable thunder clouds had gathered above the mist, and the expression of Stampa's face was almost hidden in the obscurity of the hut. "That is his name," she repeated. "You must have heard of him. He was well known on the high Alps years ago."
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