“Is this the Basilicatan peasant costume?” asked Richard, indicating a figure in the foreground, the only one revealed at all definitely.  “It looks more oriental.  Isn’t the man wearing a fez?”

“Let me see,” responded Mr. Corliss very quickly.  “Perhaps I gave you the wrong picture.  Oh, no,” he laughed easily, holding the kodak closer to his eyes; “that’s all right:  it is a fez.  That’s old Salviati, our engineer, the man I spoke of who’d worked in Persia, you know; he’s always worn a fez since then.  Got in the habit of it out there and says he’ll never give it up.  Moliterno’s always chaffing him about it.  He’s a faithful old chap, Salviati.”

“I see.”  Lindley looked thoughtfully at the picture, which the other carelessly returned to his hand.  “There seems to be a lot of oil there.”

“It’s one of the smaller wells at that.  And you can see from the kodak that it’s just `blowing’—­not an eruption from being `shot,’ or the people wouldn’t stand so near.  Yes; there’s an ocean of oil under that whole province; but we want a lot of money to get at it.  It’s mountain country; our wells will all have to go over fifteen-hundred feet, and that’s expensive.  We want to pipe the oil to Salerno, where the Standard’s ships will take it from us, and it will need a great deal for that.  But most of all we want money to get hold of the land; we must control the whole field, and it’s big!”

“How did you happen to come here to finance it?”

“I was getting to that.  Moliterno himself is as honourable a man as breathes God’s air.  But my experience has been that Neapolitan capitalists are about the cleverest and slipperiest financiers in the world.  We could have financed it twenty times over in Naples in a day, but neither Moliterno nor I was willing to trust them.  The thing is enormous, you see—­a really colossal fortune—­and Italian law is full of ins and outs, and the first man we talked to confidentially would have given us his word to play straight, and, the instant we left him, would have flown post-haste for Basilicata and grabbed for himself the two thirds of the field not yet in our hands.  Moliterno and I talked it over many, many times; we thought of going to Rome for the money, to Paris, to London, to New York; but I happened to remember the old house here that my aunt had left me—­I wanted to sell it, to add whatever it brought to the money I’ve already put in—­and then it struck me I might raise the rest here as well as anywhere else.”

The other nodded.  “I understand.”

“I suppose you’ll think me rather sentimental,” Corliss went on, with a laugh which unexpectedly betrayed a little shyness.  “I’ve never forgotten that I was born here—­was a boy here.  In all my wanderings I’ve always really thought of this as home.”

His voice trembled slightly and his face flushed; he smiled deprecatingly as though in apology for these symptoms of emotion; and at that both listeners felt (perhaps with surprise) the man’s strong attraction.  There was something very engaging about him:  in the frankness of his look and in the slight tremor in his voice; there was something appealing and yet manly in the confession, by this thoroughgoing cosmopolite, of his real feeling for the home-town.