Malipieri was accosted by a stranger at the gate of the palace. The
porter, faithfully obedient to his orders, was standing inside the
open postern, completely blocking it with his bulk, and when Malipieri
came up the visitor was still parleying with him.

"This gentleman is asking for you, sir," said the old man.

The individual bowed politely and stepped back a little. He had a
singularly worthy appearance, Malipieri thought, and he would have
inspired confidence if employed in a bank; his thick grey hair was
parted in the middle, and at first sight Malipieri felt perfectly sure
that it was parted down the back. His brown eyes were very wide open,
and steady, his slightly grizzled moustache was neither twisted
straight up at the ends in the imperial German manner, nor straight
out like a cat's whiskers, nor waxed to fine points in the old French
fashion. It grew naturally and was rather short, but it hid his mouth
almost completely. The man was extremely well dressed in half-
mourning, wore dark grey gloves and carried a plain black stick. He
spoke quietly and Malipieri thought he recognized the Genoese accent.

"Signor Marino Malipieri?"

"Yes," answered the architect, in a tone that asked the visitor's name
in return.

"My name is Vittorio Bruni. May I have a few words with you?"

"Certainly," Malipieri answered, with considerable coolness.

"Thank you. I have been much interested by your discoveries in