rather, the room where he and his wife
and children live."

"For goodness' sake, why?"

"Because he's refused to accept the reward for finding the bag."

"By Jove, he must have some deep game. What reason did he give, and
what excuse did he make, for dragging you off to his lair? It sounds
as if he meant to try and kidnap you for a ransom--(these things do
happen, you know)--and there are probably others in it besides
himself. I don't believe in the priest, nor the wife and children, nor
even in his having found the bag."

"He didn't ask me to go to his house. When I spoke of the reward, he
said that he couldn't take it, and though I questioned him, would not
tell me why, but was evidently distressed and unhappy. Finally he
admitted that it was his wife who would not allow him to accept a
reward. She had made him promise that he wouldn't. Then I said that
I'd like to talk to her, and might I go with him to his house. He
tried to make excuses; he had no house, only one room, not fit for me
to visit; and the place was a long way off, outside Martigny Bourg;
but I insisted, so at last he gave in. Now, do you still think he's
the leader of a band of kidnappers?"

"I don't know what to think. There's evidently something queer. I'll
talk to him."

During our hurried conversation, the man had walked on a few steps in
advance. I called him back, speaking in Italian. He came at once, and
now that we were in the town, where here and there a blur of light
made darkness visible, I could see his face distinctly. I had to
confess to myself at first glance that it was not the face of a
cunning villain,--this worn, weather-beaten countenance, with its
hollowed cheeks, and the sad dark eyes, out of which seemed to look
all the sorrows of the world.

He had found the bag night before last, he said, between the Cantine
de Proz and Bourg St. Pierre. It had been lying in the road, in the
_ruecksack_, and he judged by the strap that it had been attached to
the back of a man, or a mule. While I questioned him further, trying
to get some details of description not given in the handbills, he
paused. "There is the priest's house," he said. "There is a light in
the window now. Perhaps he has come back."

"We will stop and ask for the bag," said I, watching the face of the
man. It did not blench, and I began to wonder if, after all, he might
not be honest.

The priest, a delightful, white-haired old fellow, himself of the
peasant clas