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 Carthage, and if you would allow me to ask you one or two questions—­”

“Pray come in.”

“Thanks.  After you.”

“After you,” insisted Malipieri, standing aside.

They went in.  Before shutting the postern, the porter looked out into the street.  It was almost deserted.  Two men were standing together near the corner, apparently arguing some question, and stopping in their walk in order to talk more at their ease, as Romans often do.  The porter shut the little door with a clang, and went back to his lodge.  Malipieri and his visitor were already on the stairs.

Malipieri let himself in with a small latch-key, for he had ordered a modern patent lock to be put on his door as soon as he moved into the house.  Masin appeared almost at once, however, and stood waiting for his master at the door of the sitting-room, like a large, placid mastiff.  Malipieri nodded to him, and went in with Signor Bruni.

They sat down by the open window and Signor Bruni began to talk.  In a few minutes it became evident that whether the man knew anything of the subject or not he had read everything that Malipieri had written, and remembered most of it by heart.  He spoke fluently and asked intelligent questions.  He had never been to Carthage, he said, but he thought of making the trip to Tunis during the following winter.  Yes, he was a man of leisure, though he had formerly been in business; he had a taste for archaeology, and did not think it was too late to cultivate it, in a modest way, for his own pleasure.  Of course, he could never hope to accomplish anything of importance, still less to become famous like Malipieri.  It was merely a taste, and was better than nothing as an interest in life.