Stolen Souls by William le Queux

A series of exciting adventures that befell me four years ago were remarkable and puzzling. Until quite recently, I have regarded the mystery as impenetrable. Indeed, in this _fin-de-siecle_ decade it is somewhat difficult to comprehend that such events could have occurred, or that the actors could have existed in real life.

I was in Piedmont, at the little village of Bardonnechia, a quaint, rural place comprising a few picturesque chalets, an inn, and a church with a bulgy spire, which nestles in the fertile valley at the foot of the towering, snow-capped Mont Cenis. I was staying at the inn, and I wished to go to Lanslebourg, on the opposite side of the mountain, intending to travel thence by diligence to Grenoble, where I had arranged to meet some friends. But I needed a guide. The by-paths in the Cottian Alps are rough and intricate, and he would be a daring spirit who would venture to cross the Cenis alone away from the beaten track.