Who was he?  What was his secret?  How did it concern me?  These and a dozen similar questions ran through my mind as I stood there watching him die, and quite helpless to obtain the information I needed.  Once or twice he stirred uneasily; his eyes opened; his fingers strayed uncertainly over the bed as if seeking something that had gone astray, and presently he said quite distinctly, but very, very faintly, “Le Blanc!  Monsieur Le Blanc!”

“He is here,” said the cure softly.  “This is Monsieur Le Blanc.  What have you to tell him?”

I do not know if the man heard; his eyes remained open; his fingers were still fumbling among the bedclothes; a frown clouded his forehead, and presently he whispered, but to himself, not to us, “The note!  I can’t find it.  It has gone.”

I bent over, him, placing my hand on his brow.  “The note?” I said, “tell me about it.  Who gave it you?  Come, who gave you the note that is lost?”

My question produced an effect, but not the one I intended.  The angry scowl spread over his face; the dying eyes filled with passion; the voice became quite strong again as the man cried angrily, “I did not lose it.  I earned my money.  It was stolen.  They set on me—­three of them—­they were too many—­I—­I—­”

A great hush fell across us, and we gazed at each other blankly.  “It is too late,” said the cure; “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.”

“No,” said Jacques, “I do not think the poor fellow was a messenger from Mademoiselle Jeanne.”

“There is Monsieur Bellievre!  He is at Court and aware of what is going on there.  Is it likely that he has heard some favourable news, and—­”