"My master is going to stay here all night," the chauffeur shouted back.
A man put his head from the window and began to talk in rapid French.
"It is inconceivable," he exclaimed, "that any one should attempt the descent! We have rugs, my wife and I. We stay here till the clouds pass."
"Good night, then!" Lane cried cheerfully.
"Not sure that you're not wise," Hunterleys added, with a shiver.
Twice they stopped while Lane rubbed the moisture from his gloves and lit a fresh cigarette.
"This is a test for your nerve, young fellow," Hunterleys remarked. "Are you feeling it?"
"Not in the least," Lane replied. "I can't make out, though, why that steward made us all start at intervals of three minutes. Seems to me we should have been better going together at this pace. Save any one from getting lost, anyhow."
They crawled on for another twenty minutes. The routine was always the same—a hundred yards or perhaps two, an abrupt turn and then a similar distance the other way. They had one or two slight misadventures but they made progress. Once, through a rift, they caught a momentary vision of a carpet of lights at a giddy distance below.
"We'll make it all right," Lane declared, crawling around another corner. "Gee! but this is the toughest thing in driving I've ever known! I can do ninety with this car easier than I can do this three. Hullo, some one else in trouble!"