id you find him, Urie?"

"Just outside the little wood, monsieur. The ground all around was
ploughed up by horses' hoofs, and stained with blood. I should say he
was attacked by at least three horsemen. I thought he was dead, but
when I bent over him he was muttering 'Monsieur Le Blanc'"

"Did he seem sensible?"

"I asked him several questions, but he did not reply, except to repeat
monsieur's name, so I had him brought here."

"It is very strange," I said; "he is a perfect stranger; I have never
seen him before. Why should he mention my name? Is it possible for him
to recover?"

"Quite impossible, my son," exclaimed the cure; "he is dying fast; no
surgeon could do anything for him. The wonder is that he has lived so
long. He has been fearfully hurt."

"Did you meet no strange persons in the village?" I asked Urie.

"Not a soul, monsieur. It was very early; the villagers were not yet
about, and the road was empty."

The wounded man groaned, and the cure partly raised his head, when he
seemed more comfortable. His eyes were closed, and his breath came in
quick gasps; the shadow of death was stealing across his face. Would he
have strength to speak before he died? It was unlikely.

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