"There is a mountain called the Grépon," said Skinner. "I have seen pictures of it--a strange and rather attractive pinnacle, with its knife-like slabs of rock, set on end one above the other--black rock splashed with red--and the overhanging boulder on the top. Have you climbed it?" "Yes." "There is a crack, I believe--a good place to get you into training." Chayne laughed with the enjoyment of a man who recollects a stiff difficulty overcome. "Yes, to the right of the Col between the Grépon and the Charmoz. There is a step half way up--otherwise there is very little hold and the crack is very steep." They talked of other peaks, such as the Charmoz, where the first lines of ascent had given place to others more recently discovered, of new variations, new ascents and pinnacles still unclimbed; and then Garratt Skinner said: "I saw that a man actually crossed the Col des Nantillons early this summer. It used to be called the Col de Blaitière. He was killed with his guide, but after the real dangers were passed. That seems to happen at times." Chayne looked at Garratt Skinner in surprise. "It is strange that you should have mentioned John Lattery's death," he said, slowly. "Why?" asked Garratt Skinner, turning quietly toward his companion. "I read of it in 'The Times.'" "Oh, yes. No doubt it was described. What I meant was this. John Lattery was my great friend, and he was a distant kind of cousin to your friend Walter Hine, and indeed co-heir with him to Joseph Hine's great fortune. His death, I suppose, has doubled your friend's inheritance." Garratt Skinner raised himself up on his elbow. The announcement was really news to him. "Is that so?" he asked. "It is true, then. The mountains hold death too in their recesses--even on the clearest day--yes, they hold death too!" And letting himself fall gently back upon his cushions, he remained for a while with a very thoughtful look upon his face. Twice Chayne spoke to him, and twice he did not hear. He lay absorbed. It seemed that a new and engrossing idea had taken possession of his mind, and when he turned his eyes again to Chayne and spoke, he appeared to be speaking with reference to that idea rather than to any remarks of his companion. "Did you ever ascend Mont Blanc by the Brenva route?" he asked. "There's a thin ridge of ice--I read an account in Moore's 'Journal'--you have to straddle across the ridge with a leg hanging down either precipice." Chayne shook his head. "Lattery and I meant to try it this summer. The Dent du Requin as well." "Ah, that is one of the modern rock scrambles, isn't it? The last two or three hundred feet are the trouble, I believe." And so the talk went on and the comradeship grew. But Chayne noticed that always Garratt Skinner came back to the great climbs of the earlier mountaineers, the Brenva ascent of Mont Blanc, the Col Dolent, the two points of the Aiguille du Dru and the Aiguille Verte. "But you, too, have climbed," Chayne cried at length.