They came at last to narrow stairs, built in the thickness of the wall, mounted these to another passage and paused before a double door. Within was a bedroom with marble floor and deep-set windows draped with silk. A stove was burning and candles gleamed, but the place felt cheerless and rather damp: magnificent, but strangely bare, the high walls discolored with age. Another servant appeared with a tray and a steaming tureen of thick red soup. McTaggart welcomed it where he sat at a round table before the stove with sandwiches and fruit arranged in heavy dishes of silver-gilt. The bread, he thought, tasted sour, but when the man filled his glass with a golden wine, clear and sparkling, he drank it down and his eyes shone. "What is it?" he asked Vanni--"not champagne?" The lawyer smiled. "Asti Spumante--The late Marquis was well known for his cellar. And the dried figs and oranges and the goat's milk cheese are from the estate." "Excellent." McTaggart approved. "Won't you have a glass with me?" The old man was visibly pleased. He propounded an elaborate toast. "And now, I think, with his permission, I will retire." He bowed low. "May pleasant dreams wait on slumber." The door closed gently behind him. McTaggart drew a deep breath, glad at last to be alone. He finished the wine and began to smoke, his cold feet planted against the stove. He could not quite free himself from the spell of a fairy-tale; this strange arrival in the night into a mediaeval land. He glanced round him at the room, with its painted ceiling and comfortless floor and the huge bed of gilded wood shrouded with blue brocade. He began sleepily to undress, but a low tap came at the door. "Come in!--Entrez!--whatever's the word?" Beppo appeared with a slim, dark youth. "Ecco Mario." He explained. The newcomer bowed and stood, expectant, gazing respectfully at his bewildered new master. McTaggart hunted for a phrase. "Non capisco." He looked triumphant and immediately old Beppo smiled and fell back on pantomime. He turned and took from Mario a long garment in thin batiste, embroidered at the neck and wrist, with a breast-pocket where a monogram was worked beneath a tiny coronet. McTaggart struggled with his mirth. It was evident that his own luggage had been delayed at the closed Customs. This was a relic of his Uncle, destined for his use that night. Mario bowed and disappeared to return with a small jug of hot water, ivory brushes and other articles destined for his master's toilette. Solemnly he arranged the room while Beppo cleared the supper table. Then, to McTaggart's vast relief, both men wished him "good repose." He locked the door and hastily slipped out of his remaining clothes, proceeding to encase himself in the ridiculous thin night-shirt.