Now an Italian licence to carry a revolver is a very different document from that in England. It is issued only in very rare cases by the police themselves to responsible persons who first have to show that they are in danger of their lives from vendetta or some other cause, and that to carry a weapon is for them personal defence. Upon the licence is the minute police description of the person to whom it is issued, as well as his signature, while the document is also countersigned by the Prefect of the city whence it is issued. It is therefore the best of all identification papers.
Obeying the guards, I walked with them down to the light at the town gateway where they read the official permit, closely scrutinising me as they reached each individual description, colour of hair and eyes, shape of nose, forehead and head, and the dozen other small details, all of which they found tallied with the licence.
“Born in London and domiciled in Milan, I see,” remarked the carabineer.
“I was living in Milan when I applied to the Public Security Department for the permit.”
“Well,” he said, “it’s lucky for you you had it upon you, otherwise you might have spent a day or two in prison for the untruth you told us.” And he handed back the licence to me with a grim smile. “Perhaps you’ll tell me now where you really have been?”
I saw it necessary to alter my tactics, therefore I answered with a laugh:—
“To tell the truth I came out from Rome last night to keep an appointment—a secret one—with a lady—if you really must know.”
“Then you’d better go back again to Rome,” was his answer, apparently well satisfied, and believing that story more probable. “There’s a train in twenty minutes or so, and we’ll see you into it. We are on our way to the station.”
From that moment we grew friendly, for the carabineers are a splendid body of picked men, and are always polite to the foreigner.
“You were coming down from the villa yonder,” explained the man who had interrogated me half apologetically. “Therefore we had to ascertain who you were.”