“I took my flask from my pocket and, blaming myself for bringing her that hard trip, mixed a draught.  It revived her, and in a moment she started up.  ‘Where is the hat?’ she asked, looking about her.  ’Jerry had it on the ice-bridge.’

“At the sound of her voice, the dog, who had been trying to get at the hat, commenced his manoeuvers to attract her across the gorge, bounding ahead, calling her with his short, excited barks, and making all the signs of a hunting dog impatient to lead to the quarry.  She tried to get to her feet, but I put my hand on her shoulder.  ‘Wait, madam,’ I said.  ’You must rest a little longer before you try to start back.  You were so tired you fainted.  And your eyes must have played you a trick.’

“‘You mean,’ she began and stopped.

“I am not much of a dissembler, and I found it hard to meet her look, but I answered with all the assurance I could muster.  ’I mean, madam, you are mistaken about that hat.’

“She waited a moment, watching the setter, then her glance moved back incredulously to me.  ‘Then what excites Jerry?’ she asked.

“‘Why,’ I hurried to answer, ’just another bunch, of ptarmigan, probably.  But while you are resting here, I will go over into that pocket to satisfy him.’

“The setter, content with my company, ran ahead, and I followed him across the ice-bridge.  The pocket was thickly strewn with broken rock, but at the upper end there was a clear space grown with heather.  And it was there, as I feared, between a bluff and a solitary thumb-shaped boulder that the dog had found his master.”

Tisdale paused, looking off again with clouding brows to the stormy heights.  Eastward the moon in a clear sky threw a soft illumination on the desert.  The cry of the cougar had ceased.  The electrical display was less brilliant; it seemed farther off.  Miss Armitage moved a little and waited, watching his face.

“But of course,” she ventured at last, “you mixed another draught from your emergency flask.  The stimulant saved his life.”

“No.”  Tisdale’s glance came slowly back.  “He was beyond any help.  A square of canvas was set obliquely on the glacier side, and that and the blanket which covered him proved the place was his camp; but the only traces of food were a few cracker or bread crumbs in a trap made of twigs, and a marmot skin and a bunch of ptarmigan feathers to show the primitive contrivance had worked.  There was no wood in the neighborhood, but the ashes of a small fire showed he must have carried fuel from the belt of spruce half-way down the gorge.  If he had made such a trip and not gone on to the cabin, it clearly proved his mental condition.  Still in the end there had been a glimmer of light, for he had torn a leaf from his notebook and written first his wife’s name and then a line, out of which I was only able to pick the words ‘give’ and ‘help’ and ‘States.’  Evidently he had tried to put the paper into his poke,