A few days later, as Mr. Craven sat in his office smoking a cigar, while meditating upon the best method of overcoming his wife's opposition to his plans, the outer door opened, and Sharpley entered.

"Well, Craven," he said, coolly, "you appear to be taking it easy."

"When did you arrive?" asked Mr. Craven.

"Yesterday. You ought to feel complimented by my first call. You see I've lost no time in waiting upon you."

"I received your letter," said Craven.

"Both of them?"

"Yes."

"Then you know that your apprehensions were verified," said Sharpley, significantly. "The boy was as imprudent as you anticipated. He actually leaned over too far, in looking over an Alpine precipice, and tumbled. Singular coincidence, wasn't it?"

"Then he is really dead?" said Mr. Craven, anxiously.

"Dead? I should think so. A boy couldn't fall three or four hundred feet, more or less, without breaking his neck. Unless he was made of India rubber, he'd be apt to smash something."

"Did you find his body?"

"No; I didn't stop long enough. I came away the next day. But, fearing that I might seem indifferent, and that might arouse, suspicion, I left some money with a guide, the son of the landlord of the Hotel du Glacier, to find him and bury him."

"I would rather you had yourself seen the body interred. It would have been more satisfactory."

"Oh, well, I'll swear that he is dead. That will be sufficient for all purposes. But how does your wife take it?"

"In a very singular way," answered Mr. Craven.

"In a singular way? I suppose she is overwhelmed with grief, but I shouldn't call that singular—under the circumstances."

"But you are mistaken. She is not overwhelmed with grief."

Sharpley started.

"You don't mean to say she doesn't mind it?" he asked.

"No, it isn't that."

"What is it, then?"

"She won't believe the boy's dead."

"Won't believe he is dead? Did you show her my letter?"

"Yes."

"That ought to have been convincing."

"Of course it ought. Nothing could be more direct or straightforward. At first it did seem to have the proper effect. She fainted away, and for days kept her room, refusing to see any one, even me."

"Well, that must have been a sacrifice," said Sharpley, ironically; "not to see her devoted husband."

"But all at once there was a change. One day I came home at the close of the afternoon, supposing, as usual, that my wife was in her room, but, to my surprise, she was below. She had ceased weeping and seemed even cheerful—though cold in her manner. On complimenting her upon her resignation, she astonished me by saying that she was convinced that Frank was still alive."

"Did she assign any reason for this belief?" asked Sharpley, thoughtfully.

"Only that she had a presentiment that he had escaped."

"Nothing more than this?"

"Nothing more."

"Pooh! She is only hoping to the last."

"It seems to be something more than that. If it was only hope, she would have fear also, and would show all the suspicion and anxiety of such a state of mind. But she is calm and cheerful, and appears to suffer no anxiety."

"That is singular to be sure," said Sharpley; "but I suppose it will not interfere with our designs?"

"But it will. When I ventured delicately to insinuate that Frank's property ought, according to law, to be administered upon, she absolutely declined, saying that there would be time enough for that when he was proved to be dead."

"I can remove that difficulty," said Sharpley. "She will hardly need more than my oral testimony."

Mr. Craven shook his head.

"I forgot to say that she has taken an unaccountable prejudice against you. She doesn't want me to invite you to the house. She insists that she is not willing to meet you as her guest."

"What does this mean?" asked Sharpley, abruptly. "Do you think," he continued, in a lower tone, "that she has any suspicions?"

"I don't see how she can," answered Craven.

"Then why should she take such a prejudice against me?"

"She says, that but for you, Frank would never have gone abroad."

"And so, of course, not have met with this accident?"

"Yes."

"Then, it's all right. It's a woman's unreasonable whim," said Sharpley, apparently relieved by this explanation.

"That may be; but it is equally inconvenient. She won't believe your testimony, and will still insist that Frank is alive."

A new suspicion entered Sharpley's mind—this time, a suspicion of the good faith of his confederate, of whom, truth to tell, he had very little reason to form a good opinion.

"Look here, Craven," he said, his countenance changing. "I believe you are at the bottom of this."

"At the bottom of what?" exclaimed Mr. Craven, in genuine astonishment.

"I believe you've put your wife up to this."

"What should I do that for? Why should I bite my own nose off—in other words frustrate my own plans?"

"I am not sure that you would," returned Sharpley, suspiciously.

"How could it be otherwise?"

"You want to cheat me out of the sum I was to receive for this service."

"How?"

"By pretending you can't get possession of the boy's property. Then you can plead inability, and keep it all yourself."

"On my honor, you do me injustice," said Craven, earnestly.

"Your honor!" sneered Sharpley. "The least said about that the better."

"Be it so; but you must see that my interests are identified with yours. I will prove to you that all I have said is true."

"How will you prove it?"

"By bringing you face to face with Mrs. Craven. By asking you to come home with me."

"She said she did not want to receive me."

"You shall learn that from her manner. After you are convinced of it, after you find she won't credit your tale of Frank's death, we will consult as to what shall be done.'

"Very well. It will be strange if, after what has already been accomplished, we cannot circumvent an obstinate woman."

"I think we can, with your help."

"Very well. When shall we try the experiment?"

"At once."

Mr. Craven took his hat and led the way out of his office, followed by Sharpley. They walked at a good pace to the handsome dwelling already referred to, and entered.

"Katy," said Mr. Craven, "go up stairs and tell your mistress that Colonel Sharpley is here. He has just returned from Europe."

"Yes, sir," said Katy, looking askance at Sharpley, whom, in common with her mistress, she regarded as a would-be murderer.

"Ma'am," said she, a moment later, in Mrs. Craven's chamber, "he's here."

"Who's here?"

"That murderin' villain, ma'am."

"What! Colonel Sharpley?" said Mrs. Craven, dropping her work in agitation.

"Yes, ma'am; and Mr. Craven wants you to come down and see him."

"How can I see that man, who tried to take the life of my dear boy?" said Mrs. Craven, in continued agitation. "What shall I do, Katy?"

"I'll tell you what I'd do, ma'am. I'd go down and see what I can find out about it. Jest ax him questions, and see what he's got to say for himself."

Mrs. Craven hesitated, but she wanted to learn something of her absent boy, and followed Katy's advice.

As she entered the room, Sharpley advanced to meet her, with extended hand. She did not seem to see it, but passed him coldly and sank into a rocking chair.

He bit his lip with vexation, but otherwise did not show his chagrin.