t last I could perceive
the ghastly features--the dead man was Hugo Chevet.

I scarcely know why this discovery of his identity brought back so
suddenly my strength, and courage. But it did; I was no longer afraid,
no longer shrank from contact with the corpse. I confess I felt no
special sorrow, no deep regret at the fate which had overtaken him.
Although he was my mother's brother, yet his treatment of me had never
been kind, and there remained no memories to touch my heart. Still his
death was from treachery, murder, and every instinct urged me to learn
its cause, and who had been guilty of the crime.

I nerved myself to the effort, and turned the body sufficiently to
enable me to discover the wound--he had been pierced by a knife from
behind; had fallen, no doubt, without uttering a cry, dead ere he
struck the ground. Then it was murder, foul murder, a blow in the
back. Why had the deed been done? What spirit of revenge, of hatred,
of fear, could have led to such an act? I got again to my feet,
staring about through the weird moonlight, every nerve throbbing, as I
thought to grip the fact, and find its cause. Slowly I drew back,
shrinking in growing terror from the corpse, until I was safely in the
priest's garden. There I paused irresolute, my dazed, benumbed brain
beginning to grasp the situation, and assert itself.

CHAPTER XV

THE MURDER OF CHEVET

Who had killed him? What should I do? These were the two questions
haunting my mind, and becoming more and more insistent. The light
still burned in the mission house, and I could picture the scene
within--the three priests reading, or talking softly to each other,
and Cassion asleep on his bench in the corner, wearied with the day.

I could not understand, could not imagine a cause, and yet the
assassin must have been De Artigny. How else could I account for his
presence there in the night, his efforts at concealment, his bending
over the dead body, and then hurrying away without sounding an alarm.
The evidence against the man seemed conclusive, and yet I would not
condemn. There might be other reasons for his silence, for his secret
presence, and if I rushed into the house, proclaiming my discovery,
and confessing what I had seen, he would be left without defense.

Perhaps it might be the very purpose of the real murderer to thus cast
suspicion on an innocent man, and I would be the instrument. But who
else could be the murderer? That it could have b