“And if I only knew where to find his friends, I shouldn’t care half so much!” exclaimed the landlady.  “It do seem so hard that he should die here, and not one of his own blood follow him to the grave!  Surely he has some one who loves him!”

“There was something said the other day about a child,” mused my father.  “Have no papers or letters been found about his person?”

“None at all.  Why, Doctor, you were here last night when we searched for Master Basil’s watch, and you are witness that he had nothing of the kind in his possession.  As to his luggage, that’s only a carpet-bag and his conjuring things, and we looked through them as carefully as possible.”

The Chevalier moaned again, and tossed his arms feebly in his sleep.  “The proofs,” said he.  “The proofs!  I can do nothing without the proofs.”

My father listened.  The landlady shook her head.

“He has been going on like that ever since you left, sir,” she said pitifully; “fancying he’s been robbed, and calling out about the proofs—­only ten times more violent.  Then, again, he thinks he is going to act, and asks for his table.  It’s wonderful how he takes on about that trumpery table!”

Scarcely had she spoken the words when the Chevalier opened his eyes, and, by a supreme effort, sat upright in his bed.  The cold dew rose upon his brow; his lips quivered; he strove to speak, and only an inarticulate cry found utterance.  My father flew to his support.

“If you have anything to say,” he urged earnestly, “try to say it now!”

The dying man trembled convulsively, and a terrible look of despair came into his wan face.

“Tell—­tell” ... he gasped; but his voice failed him, and he could get no further.

My father laid him gently down.  There came an interval of terrible suspense—­a moment of sharp agony—­a deep, deep sigh—­and then silence.

My father laid his hand gently upon my shoulder.

“It is all over,” he said; “and his secret, if he had one, is in closer keeping than ours.  Come away, boy; this is no place for you.”

* * * * *

CHAPTER V.

IN MEMORIAM.

The poor little Chevalier!  He died and became famous.

Births, deaths and marriages are the great events of a country town; the prime novelties of a country newspaper; the salt of conversation, and the soul of gossip.  An individual who furnishes the community with one or other of these topics, is a benefactor to his species.  To be born is much; to marry is more; to die is to confer a favor on all the old ladies of the neighborhood.  They love a christening and caudle—­they rejoice in a wedding and cake—­but they prefer a funeral and black kid gloves.  It is a tragedy played off at the expense of the few for the gratification of the many—­a costly luxury, of which it is pleasanter to be the spectator than the entertainer.