"No, I can't do it," he said to himself. "It will make me dizzy. I shall run the risk of falling over myself."
He retraced his steps for a few rods, and then sat down to think. It was necessary that he should concoct some plausible account of the accident, in order to avoid suspicion, though that was not likely to fall upon him. Who could dream of any motive that would impel him to such a deed? Yet there was such a motive, as he well knew, but the only one who shared the knowledge was in America, and he was criminally connected with the crime.
Sharpley soon determined upon his course and his explanation. The latter would necessitate a search for the boy, and this made him pause.
"But, pshaw!" he said, "the boy is dead. He must have been killed at once; and the dead tell no tales. I must get back to the hotel and give the alarm."
An hour later Sharpley approached the inn. He had walked quietly till then, but now he had a part to play.
He rushed into the inn in breathless haste, nearly knocking over the portly landlord, whom he encountered in the passage.
"What is the matter, monsieur?" asked the landlord, with eyes distended.
"The boy!" gasped Sharpley.
"What of the boy, monsieur?"
"He has fallen over a precipice," he exclaimed.