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.

"Are accidents frequent among the mountains?" asked one of the guests, addressing Baptiste, the guide.

"No, monsieur; not in this part. When travelers are hurt or killed, it is because they are careless or go without guides."

"As I did," said Sharpley, who felt it would be polite to take upon himself this blame, and so skilfully evade suspicion of a graver fault. "You are right, and I am much to blame; but I did not expect to go so far, nor did I think Frank would be so imprudent. But it is not for me to blame the poor boy, who has been so fearfully punished for his boldness. You would not have let him go so near the edge of the cliff?"

"No, monsieur; or, if he went, I would have held him while he looked down."

"It is what I should have done. Oh, how horrible it was to see him fall over the cliff!"

And Sharpley shuddered, a genuine shudder; for, guilty as he was, the picture was one to appall him.

"Oh, how shall I tell his poor mother?" he continued, acting wonderfully well.

The rest were silent, respecting what they thought to be his grief.

They had, perhaps, half achieved the ascent, when they fell in with the Abercrombies, who were just returning from their excursion. They regarded the ascending party with surprise.

"What!" said Mr. Abercrombie to Sharpley, "are you just going up the mountain? You are very late."

"Where is Frank?" asked Henry Abercrombie, looking in vain among the party for our hero, to whom, as already said, he had taken a fancy.

There was silence at first, each of those in the secret regarding the rest. But it was to Sharpley that Mr. Abercrombie looked for a reply. The delay surprised him.

"What is the matter?" he asked, at length. "Has anything happened?"

"Somebody tell him," said Sharpley, in pretended emotion.

Baptiste was the one to respond.

"Monsieur," he said, gravely, "a terrible thing has happened. The poor boy has fallen into a ravine."

"What!" exclaimed father and son, in horror.

"Frank fallen? Why I saw him only this morning. I asked him to go with us. Is this true?" said Henry.

"It is only too true, my boy," said Sharpley, covering his face.

And he repeated his version of the accident with well-counterfeited emotion.

"Is there no hope?" asked Henry, with pale face.

Baptiste shook his head.

"I am afraid not," he said; "but I can tell better when I see the place."

"How can there be any hope?" asked Mr. Abercrombie.

"He might have fallen on the deep snow, or on some intermediate ledge, and so saved his life."

"Good Heaven!" thought Sharpley, in dismay. "Suppose it should be so? Suppose he is alive, and should expose me? I should be ruined. But no! It cannot be. There is not one chance in a hundred. Yet that one chance disturbs me. I must find out as soon as possible, in order that my mind may be at ease."

"Come on!" he said, aloud. "While we are lingering here the boy may die. Let us make haste."

"I will go with you," said Mr. Abercrombie.

"And I," said Henry.