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.

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.