“No. He had run away. He had had a pretty hard time before the death of the peasant’s wife. Afterwards, his existence was a trifle more exciting than he could bear. He was starved and he was beaten. But that was not all. On board fishing boats he was forced to accept dangers and risks of such a nature that the continuance of his life was nothing less than a daily miracle. So he ran away. He was aged nine, and he had a perfect knowledge of two languages as his stock-in-trade.” “But the legal proof of his death?” “Nothing simpler. The foster-father was a great friend of the village schoolmaster, and the schoolmaster, as you may know, is always the secretary of the mayor in a French village. He it is who makes out all certificates, and transacts every bit of the routine business of population-recording. The foster-father suggested to the schoolmaster that in exchange for a certificate of the boy’s death, the schoolmaster should receive a note of the Bank of France for a thousand francs. This was more than half a year’s salary to the schoolmaster, and the result was that the foster-father got the certificate. No fear of discovery! None knew of the issue of the certificate except these two men. And the lady for whose benefit the certificate was issued would be extremely unlikely to visit a remote French fishing village.” “And what occurred to the boy?” “The principal thing that occurred to the boy is that he is now sitting here and telling you his story,” said Jetsam, calmly. “I guessed it,” said Carpentaria, with equal calmness, “as soon as you mentioned that the boy was not dead.” Josephus Ilam maintained a stony silence.