Grim fancies came knocking at the door of my
brain. It was a mad thing for a boy, little more than a child, to go
out alone in the night with a stranger, a "rough-looking
peasant-fellow," who pretended to know something of the vanished bag;
to go out, leaving no word of his intentions, nor the direction he
would take. As like as not, the man was a villain who scented rich
prey in a tourist offering a reward of five thousand francs for a lost
piece of luggage.
As I thought of the brave, innocent little comrade walking
unsuspectingly into some trap from which I could have saved him had I
been by his side, a sensation of physical sickness came over me.
"How long is it since they went out?" I asked quickly.
"Ten minutes, at most, Monsieur."
I could have shaken the concierge's hand for this good news, for there
was hope of catching them up. I was in dinner jacket and pumps, but I
did not wait to make a dash upstairs for hat or coat. I borrowed the
blue, gold-handed cap of the concierge, not caring two pence for my
comical appearance, which would have sent Gaeta into peals of silver
laughter, and out into the rain I went, turning up the collar of my
jacket.
I had forgotten the Contessa, and my promise to return immediately
with tidings from the front. All I thought of was, which direction
should I take to find the Boy. Ought I to turn towards the town or
away from it?
Before I reached the garden gate, not many metres from the door, I had
decided to try the town way; and lest I should be doing the wrong
thing and have to rectify my mistake later, I ran as a lamplighter is
popularly supposed to run, but doesn't and never did.
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