HERE we are in Rome on the tenth day of our journey at three in the afternoon! Jiminy Christmas! How I felt the need of language! I had given my leisure on the train to the careful study of a conversation-book, but the conversation I acquired was not extensive enough to satisfy every need of a man born in northern New England. It was too polite. There were a number of men who quarreled over us and our baggage in the station at Rome, and I had to do all my swearing with the aid of a dictionary. I found it too slow to be of any use. We were rescued soon by Mrs. Norris and her footman, who took us to the Grand Hotel. Gwendolyn met us in the hall of their apartment, and I delivered Forbes's message. “You may kiss me!” she exclaimed, joyously. “I do it for him,” I said. “Then do it again,” said she. That's the kind of a girl she was--up and a-coming!--and that's the kind of a man I am--obliging to the point of generosity at the proper moment. The reputation of the Norrises gave us standing, and we were soon marching in step and sowing our francs in a rattling shower with the great caravan of American blood-hunters. Norris himself was in better health than I had hoped to find him, and three days later he drove me to Tivoli in his motor-car. As we were leaving the hotel the porter said to Norris: “An American gentleman called to see you about an hour ago. He was very urgent, and I told him that I thought you had gone to Tivoli.” “Not gone, but going,” said Norris. “There's a grain of truth in what you said, but I suppose you meant well.” He handed the porter a coin and added: “You must never be able to guess where I am.” In the course of our long ride across the Campagna I made my report and he made his. I told the whole story of Muggs and how at length the man had given me a good, full excuse for my play-spell. “I suppose that he will be after us again here,” said Norris. “Don't worry,” I answered; “you'll find me a capable watch-dog. It will only be necessary for me to bark at him once or twice.” “You're an angel of mercy,” said my friend. “I couldn't bear the sight of him now. It isn't the money involved; it's his devilish smoothness and the twitch of the bull-ring and the peril I am in of losing my temper and of doing something to--to be regretted.” “Let me be secretary of your interior also,” I proposed, and added: “I can get mad enough for both of us, and I have a growing stock of cuss words.” My assurance seemed to set Norris at rest, and I called for his report.