"This man," he said, "was starving. He probably fainted from sheer
exhaustion and rolled out of the saddle. It is hunger that killed him."
"With his pocket full of money," added Steinmetz, withdrawing his hand
from the dead man's pocket and displaying a bundle of notes and some
silver.
There was nothing in any of the other pockets--no paper, no clue of any
sort to the man's identity.
The two finders of this silent tragedy stood up and looked around them.
It was almost dark. They were ten miles from a habitation. It does not
sound much; but a traveller would be hard put to place ten miles between
himself and a habitation in the whole of the British Islands. This,
added to a lack of road or path which is unknown to us in England, made
ten miles of some importance.
Steinmetz had pushed his fur cap to the back of his head, which he was
scratching pensively. He had a habit of scratching his forehead with one
finger, which denoted thought.
"Now, what are we to do?" he muttered. "Can't bury the poor chap and say
nothing about it. I wonder where his passport is? We have here a
tragedy."
He turned to the horse, which was grazing hurriedly.
"My friend of the four legs," he said, "it is a thousand pities that you
are dumb."
Paul was still examining the dead man with that callousness which
denotes one who, for love or convenience, has become a doctor.
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