, for the book was a copy in Italian of the _Luxurious Sonnets_
of Messer Pietro Arentino, which Lagardere, who knew Italian, found at a
glance to be in no way to his taste, and the little book had pictures in
it which pleased him still less. With a grunt of disgust at this strange
proof of the dead man's taste in literature, Lagardere stepped to the
edge of the orchard, and, holding the volume in his finger and thumb,
pitched it over the open space into the river, where it sank. Having thus
easily got rid of the book, Lagardere began to cast about him for some
way to dispose of the body.

The boats that lay alongside of the little landing-stage caught his eye.
Lifting Master AEsop's corpse from the ground, he trailed it to the crazy
structure, and placed it in the oldest and most ramshackle of the two
weather-worn vessels. After untying the rope that fastened the boat to
its wharf, Lagardere caught up a boat-hook that lay hard by, and, raising
it as if it were a spear, he drove it with all his strength against the
bottom of the boat and knocked a ragged hole in its rotting timbers.
Then, with a vigorous push, he sent the boat out upon the smooth, swift
river.

The vigor of its impetus carried the boat nearly out to the middle of the
stream before the river could take advantage of the leak. Then, in a few
minutes, Lagardere saw the strangely burdened craft slowly sink and
finally settle beneath the surface of the stream.

When the boat and its burden were out of sight, and the water ran as
smoothly as if it were troubled with no such secret, Lagardere turned,
and, gathering up the garments of his antagonist as a Homeric hero would
have collected his fallen enemy's armor, rolled them into as small a
bundle as possible, and, putting them under his arm, made his way
cautiously back to the Inn.

He gained its shelter unperceived. Unperceived and noiselessly he
ascended the stairs which led to his room, and, opening the door, flung
his bundle upon the ground. He then closed the door again, and, going a
little farther down the corridor, knocked at an adjoining door, which
immediately opened, and Gabrielle stood before him looking pale and
anxious. Lagardere smiled cheerfully at her, and, taking from his coat
the white rose which he had plucked in the garden, offered it to her.

The girl caught it and pressed it to her lips, and then asked, eagerly:
"The man--where is the man? What has become of him?"

Lagardere affected