On examining the rope that remained—the one which had been used in making the second descent—he discovered that it was not a single piece. Two pieces had been knotted together. The longest piece had evidently been too short.
How did this happen? Could the duke have made a mistake in the height of the cliff? or had the abbe measured the rope incorrectly?
But Martial had also measured it with his eye, and it had seemed to him that the rope was much longer, fully a third longer, than it now appeared.
“There must have been some accident,” he remarked to his father and to the marquis; “but what?”
“Well, what does it matter?” replied the marquis, “you have the compromising letter, have you not?”
But Martial’s was one of those minds that never rest when confronted by an unsolved problem.
He insisted on going to inspect the rocks at the foot of the precipice.
There they discovered large spots of blood.
“One of the fugitives must have fallen,” said Martial, quickly, “and was dangerously wounded!”
“Upon my word!” exclaimed the Duc de Sairmeuse, “if Baron d’Escorval has broken his neck, I shall be delighted!”