A great hush fell across us, and we gazed at each other blankly. "It is too late," said the curé; "he has carried his secret to the grave."
"Is he dead?"
"Dead, monsieur."
"We must make inquiries," I murmured. "Urie shall show us the place where he found the body. Come, Jacques, we can do no good here."
"I will follow in a few minutes, monsieur. I wish to discover if there is anything by which we can identify the stranger."
Urie and I went out together, but the keenest search failed to help us. The dead man's horse had disappeared, and his assailants had left no trace behind them. I questioned the villagers closely, but none could throw any light on the tragedy. The victim was unknown to them, and no one had seen any strange persons in the neighbourhood. Jacques, too, was at fault, having failed to find anything in the stranger's clothing that would tend to solve the mystery.
"It is a curious thing, monsieur," he remarked that evening. "A dead body on the highroad is not an uncommon sight, but this man was coming to you on a special errand."
"It is evident he was bringing me a letter. The question is—did his murderers kill him to obtain possession of it?"
"The note has disappeared."
"True, and I am inclined to think it was the possession of the letter that cost him his life. Now, who are the persons likely to write to me? My sister—but we can dismiss her—one doesn't commit murder for a page of ordinary gossip."