“Can’t spare you,” Leslie grunted.

Peter flattered himself that he had successfully turned the conversation from well-heads.

When, after having tea with Leslie at Florian’s, he returned to the Palazzo Amadeo, Teresina told him that someone had called to see the Signore, and the Signore, being out, was waiting in the saloon.  Peter went to the saloon to see if he would do instead of the Signore, and found a stout gentleman with a black moustache and up-brushed hair, spitting on the saloon floor.  A revolting habit, as Hilary was wont wearily to remark; but Peter always accepted it with anyhow outward equanimity.

“My brother is unfortunately away from the house,” he explained, with his polite smile and atrocious Italian.  “But perhaps I can give him a message?”

The visitor gave him a sharp look, bowed ceremoniously, and said, “Ah!  The Signore is the brother of Signor Margerison?  Truly the brother?”

Peter assured him, not even halving the relationship; and indeed, he seldom did that, even in his thoughts.

The visitor gave him a card, bearing the name of Signor Giacomo Stefani, sat down, at Peter’s request, spat between his feet, and said, “I have had various affairs with your Signor brother before.  I am come to solicit his patronage in the matter of a pair of vases.  If he would recommend them for me in his paper, as before.  They are good; they might easily be antiques.”

“You wish my brother to mention them in his paper?” Peter gathered.  He was correct.

“Exactly so,” Signor Stefani told him.  “Of course, on the same terms as before, if the Signor would be satisfied with them.”

“Terms?” Peter repeated after him.

Signor Stefani became more explicit.  He named the terms.

“That was what I paid Signor Margerison before, for an article on a pseudo-Sienese chalice.  But the vases are better; they are good; they might deceive an expert.  Truly, they might be antiques!”

He continued to talk, while Peter listened.  He was taking it in rather slowly.  But at last, not being stupid, he no longer thought Hilary so.  He understood.

He stood up presently, looking a little dazed.

“It appears,” he said slowly, in his broken Italian, to Signor Stefani, “that you are making a rather bad mistake, which is a pity.  I think you had better go home.”

Signor Stefani gave a startled upward twist to his moustache, and stood up too.

“Excuse me,” he said rather angrily, “there is no mistake.  Your brother and I have very frequently had affairs together.”

Peter looked at him, frowning doubtfully as he collected his words.

“I am right, I think,” he said slowly, “that you are offering my brother a bribe to publish a fraudulent article on fraudulent goods of yours?  That is so?  Then, as I said, you are making a very serious mistake, and ... and you had better go home.  Will you come this way, please?”