Sharpley soon determined upon his course and his explanation. The latter would necessitate a search for the boy, and this made him pause.
"But, pshaw!" he said, "the boy is dead. He must have been killed at once; and the dead tell no tales. I must get back to the hotel and give the alarm."
An hour later Sharpley approached the inn. He had walked quietly till then, but now he had a part to play.
He rushed into the inn in breathless haste, nearly knocking over the portly landlord, whom he encountered in the passage.
"What is the matter, monsieur?" asked the landlord, with eyes distended.
"He has fallen over a precipice," he exclaimed.
"_Oh, ciel!_" exclaimed the landlord. "How did it happen?"
"We were walking on a narrow ledge," explained Sharpley. "On one side there was a steep descent. I don't know how many hundreds of feet deep. The boy approached the edge. I warned him to be careful, but he was very rash. He did not obey me. He leaned too far, lost his balance, and fell over. I sprang forward to save him, but it was too late."
"It is horrible!" said the landlord. "Was he your son?"
"No, but he was the son of a dear friend. Oh, how shall I break the sad tidings to his father and mother? Is there no hope of his life being saved?"
"I fear not," said the landlord, gravely. "You should have taken Baptiste with you, as I advised."
"Oh, my friend, I wish I had!" said the hypocrite, fervently. "Where is Baptiste? Let us go and see if we can find the poor boy?"
"Here I am at your service, monsieur," said Baptiste. "I will take a comrade with me. We will save him if we can, but I fear there is no hope."
Ten minutes later Sharpley, accompanied by two guides, and some of the guests of the hotel, who had been struck with horror on hearing the news, were wending their way up the mountain in quest of our hero.
There was some delay about starting, but at length the party got under way. Very little conversation took place, and that little related only to the accident. The spell of the awful tragedy was upon them, and their faces were grave and their spirits depressed.
And what shall we say of the guilty man, who alone could unlock the mystery?--who alone could account for the boy's tragic end? His mind was in a tumult of contradictory emotions. He was glad that it was all over--that the fearful task which in America he had agreed to execute, which had haunted him for these many days and nights, was no longer before him to do, that it was already done. He saw before him, mercenary wretch that he was, the promised reward, in a sum of money which would be to him a competence, and which, carefully husbanded, would relieve all his money anxieties for the future. But, on the other hand, there came the shuddering thought that he had wrought the death of an unoffending boy, who had looked up to him as a guide and protector, but whom he had only lured to his ruin.