Steinmetz pushed aside the enquiring muzzle.
“If you could speak, my friend,” he said, “we might want you. As it is, you had better continue your meal.”
Paul was unbuttoning the dead man’s clothes. He inserted his hand within the rough shirt.
“This man,” he said, “was starving. He probably fainted from sheer exhaustion and rolled out of the saddle. It is hunger that killed him.”
“With his pocket full of money,” added Steinmetz, withdrawing his hand from the dead man’s pocket and displaying a bundle of notes and some silver.
There was nothing in any of the other pockets—no paper, no clue of any sort to the man’s identity.
The two finders of this silent tragedy stood up and looked around them. It was almost dark. They were ten miles from a habitation. It does not sound much; but a traveller would be hard put to place ten miles between himself and a habitation in the whole of the British Islands. This, added to a lack of road or path which is unknown to us in England, made ten miles of some importance.
Steinmetz had pushed his fur cap to the back of his head, which he was scratching pensively. He had a habit of scratching his forehead with one finger, which denoted thought.
“Now, what are we to do?” he muttered. “Can’t bury the poor chap and say nothing about it. I wonder where his passport is? We have here a tragedy.”
He turned to the horse, which was grazing hurriedly.