“Some more bread, Bob?” and as she bent down to cut it she whispered in French to me: “She’s asked that question a dozen times, trying to pump me all the time.”
“Strangers?” I said to the woman. “Of course we are. Tourists. Don’t know a soul for many a mile about here and not a soul knows us. But you needn’t be afraid. We can pay you;” and I took out a handful of money and tossed a gold piece across to her.
It was worth the money to see the greedy avaricious light that leapt in her eyes. But Volna looked puzzled and a little alarmed at this act of mine.
“What a time that man is getting the coffee,” the woman said. “I suppose he can’t find it;” and she went out of the room.
“Why did you do that?” asked Volna.
“Why not? It was the answer she wanted, and it’s quite a relief to be able to tell the truth.”
“Do you suspect anything?”
“I think the man is a long time finding such a thing as coffee and I wonder they don’t keep it here with the rest of their eatables;” and Volna shewed that she understood me.
The two came back wrangling: she scolding him for his delay; he protesting he didn’t know where she kept things. They were clumsy actors, however.
The woman made some coffee then and set it on the table. “I’m thinking where I’ll put you to sleep,” she said. “You can have our bed and welcome,” she added to Volna; “but for your brother, I’ll have to make one up somehow. You see we’re only poor folks. But we’ll manage. Come, Ivan.”