They rumbled on through deserted streets, dark and narrow, mounted a hill, turned to the left, past a Hotel where lights were gleaming, and on again. "The Signora Marchesa," said the lawyer, "makes her compliments and is looking forward to receive Monsieur le Marquis in the morning. The hour being so late, he would wish to sleep and, doubtless, prefers this arrangement. She asked Giuseppe to deliver the message." "Very thoughtful of my aunt." McTaggart felt relieved at the news. They twisted down between high houses and then there came a sudden halt. Lanterns flashed out. Peering eagerly, he saw a massive doorway before him, flanked by windows narrow and deep with spiked bars, rusty from age. With a hollow echo they drove through the arch and emerged into an inner court, vast and full of shadows thrown by the high walls on every side. In the centre a fountain towered up: dolphins massed with icicles and a deep basin covered with frost supported by crouching griffins. The carriage encircled it and stopped. The door was opened. McTaggart descended. He found himself gazing at a marble staircase, silvery-white, with shallow steps that curved round like a parchment scroll, fairy-like, against the night. He passed up like a man in a dream. It led to a long gallery on the first floor, dim and high, open on one side to the air and laced with slender twisted columns. Where these supported the domed roof arches formed and the carved points bit into the outer dark like sharp teeth nibbling the heart of the sky. A bell tolled with a sweet, low note and the entrance doors were flung wide. With a sudden sense of warmth and light he passed through into the palace. Walls hung with tapestry, a painted ceiling, myriad candles glimmering in crystal lustres... For a second McTaggart stood there, dazed. He felt an odd lump rise in his throat. Then Signor Vanni touched his arm with a whispered word of apology. "If Monsieur le Marquis would speak to Beppo? Beppo was there in his mother's time." "Mia madre..." The long-forgotten words rose from the mirage of the past. He looked down into a wrinkled face: an old, old man in shabby livery. The next moment his hand went out and was held in the shaky clasp of age. "Mother of all the Saints! _Her_ face!" Tears were in the dim old eyes. "Ahi!--she was a Saint herself. A thousand humble welcomes 'a Lei'! He must forgive this old man who worships his blessed lady's memory ... God be praised that I see this day..." "Basta ... Basta!" Vanni checked him as the soft Italian speech flowed on, unintelligible to McTaggart, smiling down at the faithful servant. "The Signor Marchese is tired and would sleep." The "maestro di casa" effaced himself, leading the way, on tottering feet, through a long suite of rooms, into a corridor lined with statues and Etruscan pottery.