"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."
"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."
"You don't mean to say she doesn't mind it?" he asked.
"Won't believe he is dead? Did you show her my letter?"
"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."
"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."