“Then I should advertise and offer a reward?”

“Certainly. Certainly. We’ll get something worked out. We’ll just give my secretary the details in English and she’ll translate and see to the insertions.”

“I’m being a trouble,” said the wretched Barnaby.

“We’re used to it,” the Consul sighed. “Your name and London address were on the manuscript, you said, but the case was locked. Not, of course, that that amounts to anything.”

“I suppose not.”

“You are staying at—?”

“The Pensione Gallico.”

“Ah yes. Have you the telephone number?”

“Yes — I think so — somewhere about me.”

Barnaby fished distractedly in his breast pocket, pulled out his note-case, passport, and two envelopes which fell on the desk, face downwards. He had scribbled the Pensione Gallico address and telephone number on the back of one of them.

“That’s it,” he said and slid the envelope across to the Consul, who was already observant of its august crest.

“Ah — yes. Thank you.” He gave a little laugh. “Done your duty and signed the book I see,” he said.

“What? Oh — that. Well, no actually,” Barnaby mumbled. “It’s — er — some sort of luncheon. Tomorrow. I mustn’t take up any more of your time. I’m enormously grateful.”

The Consul, beaming and expanding, stretched his arm across the desk and made a fin of his hand. “No, no, no. Very glad you came to us. I feel pretty confident, all things considered. Nil desperandum, you know, nil desperandum. Rise above!”

But it wasn’t possible to rise very far above his loss as two days trickled by and there was no response to advertisements and nothing came of a long language-haltered interview with a beautiful representative of the Questura. He attended his Embassy luncheon and tried to react appropriately to ambassadorial commiseration and concern.