Part 22 (1/2)

The slim figure turned, and I mumbled a ”Thank goodness!”

”Little wretch!” I exclaimed heartily, as I joined the couple ahead.

”How could you go off alone like this with a stranger, perhaps a ruffian (he looks it), without leaving any word for me? You deserve to be shaken.”

”You wouldn't say he looked a ruffian, if you could see his face. I'm sure he's honest. And as for sending word, I didn't care to disturb you and--your Contessa.”

”Hang the--no, of course, I don't mean that. Luckily I was in time to catch you, and----”

”Did the Contessa send you after me, or did----”

”She doesn't know what's become of you. There was no time for politenesses. You gave me some bad moments, little brute. Now, tell me what you're about.”

He explained that the peasant (who understood no word of English) was an Italian who had come to Martigny to find work as a road mender, that he had been taken ill and lost his job; that he had tramped back over the St. Bernard to Aosta, near which place he had once lived; that the work he had heard of there was already given to another; and that, walking back to rejoin his family near Martigny, he had found the bag on the Pa.s.s. He had brought it home, and had only just learned the address of the owner, as set forth in the handbills.

”Why didn't he bring the bag to you, and claim the reward?” I asked.

”It is at the house of the priest, and the priest has been away all day, visiting a relative in the country somewhere, who is ill, so this man, Andriolo Stefani, couldn't get the bag. But he came to tell me that it was found, and where it was.”

”And he pretends to be guiding you to the house of the priest now?”

”No. I'm going to his house--or 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 _rucksack_, 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 cla.s.s, had returned, and from a locked cupboard in his bare little dining-room study produced the much talked of bag, in its _rucksack_.

The Boy sprang at it eagerly. So secure had he believed it to be on the grey donkey's back, that he had not been in the habit of taking out the key. It was still in the lock, and, the bag standing on the priest's dinner table, the Boy opened it with visible excitement. Then he dived down into the contents, without bringing them into sight, and a bright colour flamed in his cheeks. ”Everything is safe,” he said, with a long sigh of relief. ”I'm thankful.”

He turned to the priest, speaking in French--and his French was very good. ”I have offered a large reward to the finder of this bag. But the man will not have it. Can you tell me why, _mon pere_?”

”I cannot tell you, Monsieur. Doubtless he has a reason which seems to him good,” answered the priest, who evidently knew that reason, but was pledged not to tell. ”He and his family have not been in my parish long, but I believe them to be worthy people. I have been trying to get work for Andriolo, since he has been well again, and able to undertake it, but so far I have not been fortunate.”

The Boy took a handful of gold from his pocket. ”For the poor of your parish, _mon pere_, if you will be good enough to accept it for them,”

said he, with great charm and simplicity of manner. The old priest flushed with pleasure, saying that he had many poor, and was constantly distressed because he could do so little. This would be a G.o.dsend. I glanced at the Italian, and saw that his weary, dark eyes were fixed with a pa.s.sionate wistfulness upon the gold. This look, his whole appearance, bespoke poverty, yet he had deliberately refused five thousand francs, a fortune to most men of his condition. Now that he was vouched for by the priest, extreme curiosity took the place of suspicion in my mind.

I hid the blue cap of the concierge behind my back, in the priest's house, but the Boy saw it, and saw that I was drenched with rain. I must have been a figure for laughter, but he did not laugh. ”You see, I was in a hurry,” I excused myself, under a long, comprehending gaze of his. ”It's your fault if I look an a.s.s.”