“How long will the signor want the vettura?” asked the driver.
“I do not know. We will hire it by the day.”
“And where will the signor wish to go?”
“To Naples, by way of Valmontone and Frosinone. Do you know the route?”
“Si, signor, most assuredly.”
Bernard and Mr. Cunningham seated themselves in the carriage, and they started. They left Rome by the Porta Maggiore, their course being through the Campagna, the dreary and unwholesome tract in the immediate neighborhood of Rome. There was very little to see in the first day’s journey except a ruined aqueduct, which detained them but a short time, and they pushed on to Valmontone, where they arranged to stop over night. The inn was far from satisfactory, and they were not tempted to prolong their stay.
In the evening, as they sat on a bench outside the inn, a man of about fifty, wearing a tall white hat, with an unmistakable American look, walked up to them and removing his hat said: “Gentlemen, I’m glad to see you. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Amos Sanderson, and I live about ten miles from Omaha when I’m at home.”
“I am glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Sanderson,” said Cunningham politely. “I am Walter Cunningham, from London.”
“You don’t mean to say you’re an Englishman,” said Sanderson, in surprise. “You look like an American.”
“Doubtless that is meant as a compliment,” said Cunningham, smiling.