“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 class, had returned, and from a locked cupboard in his bare little dining-room study produced the much talked of bag, in its ruecksack.

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.”