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Provence?”
    His eyes flicked up from his cup. “Probably a dog,” he said. “At what time?”
    “Around ten or eleven, I think.”
    “Did it sound close or far?”
    “Far, I think. But it was hard to tell with the wind so loud.”
    M. Telloir studied his cup, swirling the tea absently. “Thieves have been stealing dogs lately,” he finally said, “and that’s not all.”
    “They have! Why would someone want to steal a dog?”
    “They can be very valuable,” he mumbled into his cup, sipping the last of his tea.
    “Are they a special breed?” I asked, standing to get him some more tea.
    “No. Most of them are of many breeds, all mixed together.”
    “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” I said, refilling his cup. “What makes them so valuable?”
    “Truffles,” he said.
    “Truffles,” I echoed, referring to the exotic French fungus that grows underground on the roots of oak trees and is a delicacy prized by chefs the world over. Perhaps that’s what my trespasser was after. “I thought they were hunted with pigs,” I said.
    “Pigs get stolen, too, but mostly it is the dogs now.”
    “The thieves are stealing dogs that are good at finding truffles?”
    He grunted his assent. “Last week they beat up a farmer who was selling a dog. Took the dog and left the man all bloody.”
    “How terrible.”
    “It’s the start of the season, you know.”
    “No, I didn’t know,” I said. “Are you a truffle hunter?”
    There was a long pause; he seemed hesitant to trust me with this information. At last he said, “My dog was stolen, too.”
    “Are you all right? Did they hurt you, too?”
    “Wasn’t there. They make a hole in my fence and take my dog. ’E had a good nose. Trained him myself.”
    “What did you do? Are the police any help?”
    He blew a stream of air through his lips and looked away from me. “Bon à rien! Useless,” he said. “The thieves take our dogs over the mountains. And if a farmer in St. Marc buys a new truffle dog, ‘e tells no one because ’e knows it could be stolen from somewhere else. Next week I go to the market in Carpentras. There’s a man I know who might sell me his dog.”
    “What will you do in the meantime? Can you find truffles without a dog?”
    “There are ways,” he said. “If it’s warm enough, I watch for les mouches.”
    “Flies?”
    “Oui! They like very much the scent of truffles. One watches where they land under the tree, and dig there.”
    “And you’ve found truffles that way?”
    “Oh, yes. My dog, ’e was faster, but the flies, they know, too.”
    I thought about the stolen dogs later that day while tramping in the woods behind Martine’s house. M. Telloir had fastened the clean basket to my newly shined bike, and promised to bring more eggs later in the week. He’d also indicated that the baker had a special cake I should try. It had powdered sugar on top. I took the hint, and added the cake to the shopping list I’d compiled for my first venture into St. Marc.
    After M. Telloir had left and I’d washed up our few dishes, I put on a heavy sweater and further explored my surroundings. I located the woodpile on the same side of the house as the kitchen door. The wood was split and stacked three logs deep, as high as my shoulder. There was more than enough to last two months, and probably a sufficient supply for the whole winter.
    The view down the driveway confirmed the first impression I’d had from Marcel’s car. Rows of olive trees stretched out on both sides, most of their silvery leaves still clinging to the branches but dry now, from the mistral, the constant wind that came from the north.
    On the side of the garage, I found the trail I’d already explored in the dark. It led through a row of soaring trees and into a sparse forest of mixed growth. The tall cypresses may have been planted by a previous tenant, but the oaks and planes and pines beyond them had been put there by nature. I followed the well-traveled path that