He could not see the fallen man. He could only see the rope—twitching as it descended over the jammed boulder. He could only know by conjecture what had been the cause.
Would nothing break this death-like stillness?
He remembered Doris, whose presence had been momentarily driven from his mind by Pressford's fall. Why had she not called out? Then it occurred to him that she might have screamed, unheard, at the worst moment of the shock,—that even since then she might have called, without gaining his attention.
As he wondered, her voice, clear and steady, came up to him. "Mr. Maurice—something is wrong. Mr. Pressford has fallen. Can I help?"
"Can you see him?" Maurice's deeper tones asked.
"Yes." In the pure mountain air their voices travelled easily.
"Any support below?"
"I'm afraid not. It's all smooth rock." She scanned the part intently. "I can't be sure. There's a ledge a little to one side—not quite below him. May I come up? If I may, I can pull him on the ledge."
The offer took Maurice by surprise. He was amazed at her coolness, her presence of mind.
"No! No!" he called. He could not think of letting her run the risk, unroped. "Stay where you are." His tone was urgent.