‘And why did you wonder that? Look, Signor Pace—that is your name, isn’t it?’

‘Your own memory, sir, is superb.’

‘Signor Pace. Is there, perhaps, something about this enterprise, or about the person who controls it that makes you think I might be interested in it—or him—for other than sightseeing reasons?’

The young man became pink in the face, gazed at his clasped hands, glanced round the bureau which was empty of other people and finally said, ‘The cicerone in question, Signore—a Mr Sebastian Mailer—is a person of a certain, or perhaps I should say, uncertain reputation. Nothing specific you understand, but there are—’ he agitated his fingers ‘—suggestions. Rome is a great place for suggestions.’

‘Yes?’

‘I remarked that it was quite a coincidence you should inquire about him. That is because he was here earlier today. Not for the first time. He asked to be put on our books some weeks ago but his reputation, his appearance—everything—did not recommend his venture to us and we declined. Then, this morning as a new inducement he brings us his list of patrons. It was quite astonishing, Signore, this list.’

‘May I see it?’

‘We still have not accepted him. I—I don’t quite—’

‘Signor Pace, your guess was a good one. My interest in this person is professional.’

‘Ah!’

‘But I am most anxious to appear simply as a tourist. I remember that in London your chief spoke very highly indeed of your discretion and promise—a promise that is evidently being fulfilled.’

‘You are kind enough to say so, sir.’

‘I realize that I can’t get a booking with Il Cicerone through you but perhaps you can tell me—

‘I can arrange it with another agency and will be delighted to do so. As for the list of patrons: under the circumstances, I think, there is no reason why I should not show it to you. Will you come into the office, if you please. While you examine it I will attend to your booking.’

The list Signor Pace produced was a day-by-day record of people who had put themselves down for Il Cicerone expeditions. It was prefaced by a general announcement that made his visitor blink: ‘Under the distinguished patronage of the celebrated author, Mr Barnaby Grant.’

‘This is coming it strong!’

‘Is it not?’ Signor Pace said, busily dialling. ‘I cannot imagine how it has been achieved. Although—’ he broke off and addressed himself elegantly to the telephone. ‘Pronto. Chi parla?’— and, as an aside: ‘Look at the patronage, Signore. On the first day, Saturday, the twenty-sixth, for instance.’

Here it was, neatly set out in the Italianate script.