GIVING THE ALARM.
There are not many men who can commit a crime of violence without an
inward shudder and a thrill of horror. Sharpley was not a professional
murderer. He had never before taken life. His offences against law had
been many, but none had stained his soul with blood till now.
He felt faint as he saw the disappearance of his young ward, sped by
his own hand to a death so fearful.
"It is done and can't be undone," he muttered. "He will never know what
hurt him. I am glad it's over. It was a dirty job, but I had to do it.
Craven forced me to this. He must pay well for it."
"Shall I look over the cliff?" he asked himself.
[Illustration: OVER THE LEDGE.]
He advanced a step, but drew back with a shudder.
"No, I can't do it," he said to himself. "It will make me dizzy. I
shall run the risk of falling over myself."
He retraced his steps for a few rods, and then sat down to think. It
was necessary that he should concoct some plausible account of the
accident, in order to avoid suspicion, though that was not likely to
fall upon him. Who could dream of any motive that would impel him to
such a deed? Yet there was such a motive, as he well knew, but the only
one who shared the knowledge was in America, and he was criminally
connected with the crime.
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.
"The boy!" gasped Sharpley.
"What of the boy, monsieur?"
"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.