‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Nothing.’ I was thinking back now to the scene in Sismondi’s flat. I’d thrust it out of my mind. But now I remembered how Sismondi had been waiting …
‘Walter Shirer is very like the man whose picture you had.’
‘Yes. He was very like Sansevino. Have you — met Shirer?’
‘Yes. John Maxwell took me to see him.’
‘In Milan?’
‘No. Here in Naples. We saw him last—’ She caught hold of my arm. ‘What is the matter?’
‘It’s all right,’ I muttered. I felt for the back of my chair and sank into it.
‘You went quite white.’
‘I’m not at all well. That’s why I had to have a holiday.’