Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside. Something insisted that those two were mysteriously linked—that the woman knew the man was there. “The man alone could supply any, and if he recovers sufficiently to say anything, what he would say would exonerate you. He passed but a cursory glance over the formal certificate that identified the Frenchman before him as one André Valade, distant cousin to the Vicomte Valade. Salvation. “I—I am sorry—I didn’t explain.
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