One of them produced a bit of paper, it is true, which he said had been given to him as a receipt by the post-office people at Constance.

But in the lonely passes of the Tyrol one man, set upon by three, might easily be robbed of his papers, and his body thrown over a precipice.

The chief clerk shook his head.

He would like us to return accompanied by someone who could identify us.

The hotel porter occurred to us, as a matter of course.
Keeping to the back streets, we returned to the hotel and fished him out of his box.
"I am Mr.J.," I said: "this is my friend Mr.B.and this is Mr.S." The porter bowed and said he was delighted.
"I want you to come with us to the post-office," I explained, "and identify us." The hotel porter is always a practical man: his calling robs him of all sympathy with the hide-bound formality of his compatriots.