It was ten years since his last visit to the city, but he managed to find the Via Boccaccio which runs past the Dal Verme Theatre, and followed it—rather painfully for he wanted to go to sleep on every bench—till he saw, hung at the corner of a high stone house, a shield, white lettered on a red ground, “His Britannic Majesty’s Consul General for Lombardy and Venetia.”
“Gott sei Dank,” said the priest—and, then remembering that it was no longer necessary to think in German, “Thank God!”
He slinked past the porter’s lodge—the consulate is on the first floor—dragged himself up the marble stairs; and rang the bell.
Mr. Towsey, brown-bearded, short of stature, determined of eye, opened the door himself. He had just made his early cup of tea; his mother was still in bed; their servant gossiping downstairs.
“Ma cosa vuole a cuest’ ora?” he said.
“Console Inglese?” asked the priest.
“Si. Ma cosa vuole?”
“Lasc’ entrare. Non posso parlarvi qui.”
The door closed behind them.
Mr. Towsey led into a square bare room, safe in one corner, desk near the window.