He put the letter in his pocket and turned to leave the room, with a nod to its only other occupant, an olive-skinned young man with lustrous eyes and a low collar, who sat on the other side of the table, perusing the FANFULLA DI DOMENICA. This gentleman, his daily vis-a-vis, returned the nod with a Latin eloquence of gesture, and Wyant passed on to the ante-chamber, where he paused to light a cigarette. He was just restoring the case to his pocket when he heard a hurried step behind him, and the lustrous-eyed young man advanced through the glass doors of the dining-room. “Pardon me, sir,” he said in measured English, and with an intonation of exquisite politeness; “you have let this letter fall.” Wyant, recognizing his friend’s note of introduction to Doctor Lombard, took it with a word of thanks, and was about to turn away when he perceived that the eyes of his fellow diner remained fixed on him with a gaze of melancholy interrogation. “Again pardon me,” the young man at length ventured, “but are you by chance the friend of the illustrious Doctor Lombard?” “No,” returned Wyant, with the instinctive Anglo-Saxon distrust of foreign advances. Then, fearing to appear rude, he said with a guarded politeness: “Perhaps, by the way, you can tell me the number of his house. I see it is not given here.” The young man brightened perceptibly. “The number of the house is thirteen; but any one can indicate it to you--it is well known in Siena. It is called,” he continued after a moment, “the House of the Dead Hand.” Wyant stared. “What a queer name!” he said. “The name comes from an antique hand of marble which for many hundred years has been above the door.” Wyant was turning away with a gesture of thanks, when the other added: “If you would have the kindness to ring twice.” “To ring twice?” “At the doctor’s.” The young man smiled. “It is the custom.”