The slave at the door looked at him attentively before admitting him. There was something unusual in his expression, though his features were not very marked, and he had the rather pasty complexion that is so common in the East. His eyes were perhaps a little longer and more almond-shaped than those of the average Greek or Bokharian, and he kept them half-closed. His scanty black beard had a few grey hairs in it. His nostrils curved sharply, but the nose was neither very large nor markedly aquiline. A commonplace face enough in Constantinople; but there was something oddly fixed in its expression, that made the slave feel uncomfortable and yet submissive. Many persons of all conditions came to the merchant's house on business during the day, and it was the rule to send them to Omobono. The slave's business was to keep out thieves, beggars, and suspicious characters; he stood aside, admitted the visitor to the court which separated the house from the street, and shut the gate again. One of the free house-servants, of whom two or three were always waiting, came forward--a square-shouldered Venetian named Vito, who had been a sailor and had followed Zeno for years. He enquired the stranger's name and business. 'I am Gorlias Pietrogliant,' was the answer. 'My business with the secretary is private.' The serving-man disappeared, and returned a moment later to conduct the visitor to the private room of the counting-house on the ground floor, where Omobono sat behind a high desk covered with papers and slips of parchment. Omobono straightened himself on his stool and eyed the newcomer with a look of enquiry, at the same time drawing from his right arm the half sleeve of grey cotton which he always put on when he was going to write long, lest a spot of ink should stain the soft linen wrist-band which just showed below the tight cuff of his coat. He was a careful man. He looked at his visitor keenly, till he suddenly became aware that his scrutiny was returned with a rather disquieting fixedness. 'I am Gorlias Pietrogliant,' said the stranger. Omobono bent his head politely, and wondered whether he should be able to repeat such an outlandish name. 'I am Messer Zeno's secretary,' he answered. 'What is your business, Master Porlias Dietroplant?' 'Gorlias,' corrected the other, quite unmoved. Gorlias Pietrogliant.' 'Master Gorlias--I beg your pardon.' 'I am an astrologer,' observed the visitor, seating himself on a high stool at Omobono's elbow, and relapsing into silence. 'You are an astrologer,' said the secretary tentatively, after a long pause, for he did not know what to say. 'Yes, I told you so,' replied Gorlias; and for a few seconds longer it did not seem to occur to him that there was anything else to be said.