"What can I do for signor?"
I perceived behind the desk a person of uncertain age, a dry, pallid, fair man, a sort of an albino. I turned toward him, mentioned the titles of several works. I bought a few, then I inquired for the last novel by Filippo Arborio. The albino handed me The Secret. I feigned to be a fanatical admirer of the novelist.
"Is this really his last?"
"Yes, signor. A month or two ago, we announced a new novel by him: Turris Eburnea."
"Turris Eburnea!"
My heart throbbed.
"But I do not think we can publish it."
"Why not?"
"The author is very ill."
"Ill? What's the matter?"