Meanwhile, unconscious of the awful tragedy being enacted that day on the mountains, I had sent Imboden down to St Nicholas to see his family, and, after dinner, was sitting writing in the little salon of the Hotel Zermatt when two people entered, remarking to each other, "What a horrible smash on the Lyskamm!"
I started to my feet. Something told me it must be Roman's party. Crossing quickly over to the Monte Rosa Hotel, I found a silent crowd gathering in the street. I went into the office.
"Who is it?" I asked.
"Roman's party," was the answer.
"How do you know?"
"The other party has telephoned from the Riffel; we wait for them to arrive to hear particulars."
The crowd grew larger and larger in the dark without. All waited in cruel suspense. I could not bear to think of Imboden.
An hour passed. Then there was a stir among the waiting throng, and I went out among them and waited too.
The other party was coming. As the little band filed through the crowd, one question only was whispered.
"Is there any hope?" Sadly shaking their heads, the gentleman and his guides passed into Herr Seiler's room, and there we learned all there was to hear.