"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.