On the third day, I made myself look as fine as I could, and though my heart beat loudly as I mounted the bridle-path, I put on a bold look and rang the bell.  It was a clanging thing, that seemed to creak on a hinge, as I pulled the stout string from outside.  A man appeared, and on my inquiry said I might wait in the porch behind the great wooden gate, while he delivered my message to his excellency the baron.  It seemed to take a long time, and I sat on a stone bench, eying the courtyard curiously from beneath the archway.  It was sunny and clean, with an old well in the middle, but I could see nothing save a few windows opening upon it.  At last the man returned and said that I might come with him.

I found Benoni, clad in a gorgeous dressing-gown, stalking up and down a large vaulted apartment, in which there were a few new arm-chairs, a table covered with books, and a quantity of ancient furniture that looked unsteady and fragile, although it had been carefully dusted.  A plain green baize carpet covered about half the floor, and the remainder was of red brick.  The morning sun streamed in through tall windows, and played in a rainbow-like effulgence on the baron’s many-coloured dressing-gown, as he paused in his walk to greet me.

“Well, my friend,” said Benoni, gaily, “how in the name of the devil did you get here?” I thought I had been right; he was going to play at being my friend again.

“Very easily, by the help of your little hint,” I replied, and I seated myself, for I felt that I was master of the situation.

“Ah, if I had suspected you of being so intelligent, I would not have given you any hint at all.  You see I have not been to Austria on business, but am here in this good old flesh of mine, such as it is.”

“Consequently—­” I began, and then stopped.  I suddenly felt that Benoni had turned the tables upon me, I could not tell how.

“Consequently,” said he, continuing my sentence, “when I told you that I was going to Austria I was lying.”

“The frankness of the statement obliges me to believe that you are now telling the truth,” I answered, angrily.  I felt uneasy.  Benoni laughed in his peculiar way.

“Precisely,” he continued again, “I was lying.  I generally do, for so long as I am believed I deceive people; and when they find me out, they are confused between truth and lying, so that they do not know what to believe at all.  By the by, I am wandering, I am sorry to see you here.  I hope you understand that.”  He looked at me with the most cheerful expression.  I believe I was beginning to be angry at his insulting calmness.  I did not answer him.

“Signor Grandi,” he said in a moment, seeing I was silent, “I am enchanted to see you, if you prefer that I should be.  But may I imagine if I can do anything more for you, now that you have heard from my own lips that I am a liar?  I say it again,—­I like the word,—­I am a liar, and I wish I were a better one.  What can I do for you?”