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.
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