I attempted to deny this; but he silenced me. “And your names,” he asked the woman.
“This is my husband, Peter Vranowski, the woodcutter; I am Anna his wife. We came last week from Potzden in Silesia, and have been lodging here with these Krempels. We thought they were honest folks like ourselves.”
“You are the man I am searching for,” he said, turning to me. “Ivan Krempel, and his wife, Nita.”
This was good news in a way. He was not after the Garretts, and I could safely use that name.
“I can understand your perplexity,” I said calmly. “But this woman is lying. We are English; Robert Garrett and Margaret Garrett, brother and sister. Caught by the storm to-night, we came here for shelter, and narrowly escaped death at the hands of these two.”
“But these people say you are the Krempels.”
“So they are. So they are. The holy Virgin knows I speak the truth,” protested the old hag.
“The proof is in your hands. Our passports are among the papers which you have taken from me.”
“Go into the room there, all of you,” he answered, after a pause. I led the way with Volna and the rest followed. “Get a light,” he said to Volna, the candle having been extinguished in the former scrimmage.
“I don’t know where to look for one. There was a lamp here, but the woman took it away.”