She was descending the stairs when a commotion from below, a sound of voices loud, argumentative, rising and falling in excited chorus, hurried her steps. The lower hall, lit with lamps and the glow of its stove, heated to a translucent red, was full of men. A current of cold could be felt in the hot atmosphere and fresh snow was melting on the floor. Standing by the stove was a man who had evidently just entered. Ridges of white lay caught in the folds of his garments; a silver hoar was on his beard. He held his hands out to the heat and as Rose reached the foot of the stairs she heard him say,
“Well, I tell you that any man that started to walk up here from Rocky Bar this afternoon must have been plumb crazy. Why, John L. Sullivan couldn’t do it in such a storm.”
To which the well-bred voice of Willoughby answered,
“But according to the message he started at two and the snow was hardly falling then. He must have got a good way, past the Silver Crescent even, when the storm caught him.”
A hubbub of voices broke out here, and, seeing her father on the edge of the crowd, Rose went to him and plucked his sleeve, murmuring,
“What’s happened? What’s going on?”
He took his cigar out of his mouth and turned toward her, speaking low and keeping his eyes on the men by the stove.
“The telegraph operator’s just had a message sent from Rocky Bar that a man started from there this afternoon to walk up here. They don’t think he could make it and are afraid he’s lost somewhere. Perley and some of the boys are going out to look for him.”
“What a dreadful thing! In such a storm! Do you think they’ll ever find him?”
He shrugged, and replaced his cigar in his mouth.