“You, my dear Consul, are telling me.”

“Quite so. Quite so. Now, we’ll have to see what we can do, won’t we? My wife,” he added, “is a great fan of yours. She’ll be quite concerned when she hears of this. She’s a bit of an egg-head,” he had jokingly confided.

Barnaby had not replied. He contemplated his fellow-Briton over a handful of lint kindly provided by the consular staff and rested his bandaged left hand upon his knee.

“Well, of course,” the Consul continued argumentatively, “properly speaking it’s a matter for the police. Though I must say — however. If you’ll wait a moment I’ll just put a call through. I’ve got a personal contact — nothing like approaching at the right level, is there? Now, then.”

After a number of delays there had been a long and virtually incomprehensible conversation during which Barnaby fancied he was being described as Great Britain’s most celebrated novelist. With many pauses to refer to Barnaby himself, the Consul related at dictation speed the details of the affair and when that was over showered a number of grateful compliments into the telephone—“E stato molto gentile — grazie. Molto grazie, Signore” — which even poor Barnaby could understand.

The Consul replaced the receiver and pulled a grimace. “Not much joy from that quarter,” he said. Barnaby swallowed and felt sick.

He was assured that everything that could be done would be done, but, the Consul pointed out, they hadn’t much to go on, had they? Still, he added more brightly, there was always the chance that Barnaby might be blackmailed.

“Blackmailed?”

“Well, you see, whoever took the case probably expected, if not a haul of valuables, or cash, something in the nature of documents for the recovery of which a reward would be offered and a haggling basis thus set up. Blackmail,” said the Consul, “was not, of course, the right word. Ransom would be more appropriate. Although—” He was a man of broken sentences and he left this one suspended in an atmosphere of extreme discomfort.