On Wednesday morning my friend got permission from his doctor to walk up to Arolla for lunch. We gladly availed ourselves of the new freedom. At Arolla we found many of Jones’s friends hoping to meet him shortly in the Zermatt Valley. On our way back to Evolena we passed the body of the Tiroler guide, Reinstadler, of Sulden, which was being carried down the valley. He had been killed on Monday, August 28th--that black and fatal day in the Evolena Valley--by falling into a crevasse on the Pigne d’Arolla. As we re-entered the garden of our hotel, M. Spahr met us looking very grave. ‘Had we heard of the great accident on the Dent Blanche?’ For the first time the thought of danger to Jones and Hill crossed my mind. I quickly asked him for details, telling him why I was apprehensive. He had had a telegram from Dr. Seiler from Zermatt, which he showed me. It was in French and ran something like this: ‘A tourist and three guides have fallen from the Dent Blanche. A caravan of guides is starting from Zermatt to look for the bodies, which will reach Haudères about six o’clock to-morrow evening. Have four coffins ready at Haudères. I am coming round myself.--SEILER.’ Four bodies! This could not be Jones and Hill’s party, there would be five or three, for they had intended to make the ascent on two ropes, three and two respectively on each. If all five had been roped together, one could not have been saved. My mind grew easier. So we reason when we do not know. But I could not avoid thinking of the awful accident, and as I thought my fears returned. No other party had left the Evolena Valley for the Dent Blanche that week. The bodies had fallen on the Evolena side. It was improbable they had climbed from the Zermatt side. Could it be that the fifth body had not been seen? One climber and three guides was a most unusual party? I grew uneasy again, and finally telegraphed to Dr. Seiler: ‘Have Messrs. Jones and Hill arrived?’ While we were waiting for dinner and a reply, a voice hailed me by name out of the gathering gloom. It was that of Mr. Harold Spender, who had just driven up the valley with his sister and a younger brother, Mr. Hugh Spender. We exchanged greetings and discussed the accident. I told them what I feared. We were sitting in the balcony outside the hotel in the summer darkness when a villager put a yellow telegraph envelope in my hand. I hastily tore it open, and this is what I read: ‘M. Hill arrived safely this morning, but Jones and three guides fell an hour and a half from the top on Monday morning.--SEILER.’ Owen Glynne Jones was dead. My mind almost reeled at the fact. Intellectually I knew it must be so, but I was utterly unable to realise it. I could almost hear the sound of his voice and the rattle of the nails of his dusty boots on the stones that last Sunday morning. But his voice was stilled for ever.