“It seems very clear.”

“If so, it will not take more than a few hours of your time. Perhaps in two days or so I may—? But I mustn’t be clamorous.”

Barnaby thought: “And I must do this handsomely.” He said: “Look, I’ve a suggestion. Dine with me the day after tomorrow and I’ll tell you what I think.”

“How kind you are! I am overwhelmed. But, please, you must allow me — if you don’t object to — well, to somewhere — quite modest — like this, for example. There is a little trattoria, as you see. Their fettuccini—really very good and their wine quite respectable. The manager is a friend of mine and will take care of us.”

“It sounds admirable. By all means let us come here, but it shall be my party, Mr. Mailer, if you please. You shall order our dinner. I am in your hands.”

“Indeed? Really? Then I must speak with him beforehand.”

On this understanding they parted.

At the Pensione Gallico, Barnaby told everybody he encountered — the manageress, the two waiters, even the chambermaid who had little or no English — of the recovery of his manuscript. Some of them understood him and some did not. All rejoiced. He rang up the Consulate, which was loud in felicitations. He paid for his advertisements.

When all this had been accomplished he re-read such bits of his book as he had felt needed to be rewritten, skipping from one part to another.

It crossed his mind that his dominant reaction to the events of the past three days was now one of anticlimax: “All that agony and — back to normal,” he thought and turned a page.

In a groove between the sheets held by their loose-leaf binder he noticed a smear and, upon opening the manuscript more widely, found a slight deposit of something that looked like cigarette ash.

He had given up smoking two years ago.

On second thought (and after a close examination of the lock on his case) he reminded himself that the lady who did for him in London was a chain-smoker and excessively curious and that his manuscript often lay open on his table. This reflection comforted him and he was able to work on his book and, in the siesta, to read Mr. Mailer’s near-novella with tolerable composure.