"From London," said McTaggart with the conscious pride of a tired man at the end of his journey. "I'm bound for Siena," he volunteered. "Is it generally as cold as this in Italy?"
The old man smiled.
"It is Winter still, Monsieur. What would you have?"
He spread out his hands. "In Siena we are high ... altis ... simo! But healthy—one gets few fevers there. Monsieur is 'en touriste'?" His gentle curiosity was freed from all impertinence by his charming manner.
"No—not exactly. I'm going there on business."
McTaggart paused a moment, then made up his mind.
"I've inherited a property from my mother's brother. He was killed in an accident, near Rome, with his sons."
The effect on his audience was electrical.
"But, Monsieur!" ... he stuttered—"è impossibile!—Monsieur is not the English Milord?—the new Marchese Maramonte?"
For the third time off came his hat.