‘Of course,’ said Dickie, when the boy had gone off with his mancia, whistling, ‘he’s having us on. But he’s a tough youngster. Can’t be more than twelve years old.’

Philip was looking all round him, clenching and unclenching his fingers.

‘I don’t believe he invented that.’

‘But if he didn’t?’

Philip did not answer.

‘How like a cemetery the place looks,’ he said, suddenly, ‘with all the cypresses and this horrible monumental mason’s road-repairing stuff all round.’

‘The scene would look better for a few fairy-lights,’ rejoined Dickie. ‘But your morbid fancies don’t help us to solve the problem of our friend in the boat. Are we being made fools of by this whippersnapper, or are we not?’

‘Time will show,’ said Philip. ‘He said a few minutes.’

They both sat listening.

‘This waiting gives me the jim-jams,’ said Dickie at last. ‘Let’s call the little rascal back and make him tell us what really did happen.’

‘No, no, Dickie, that would be too mortifying. Let’s try to think it out; let’s proceed from the known to the unknown, as they do in detective stories. The boy goes off. He arrives at the landing stage. He finds some ghoulish loafers hanging about. . . .’

‘He might not,’ said Dickie. ‘There were only two or three corpse-gazers when we left.’

‘Anyhow, he finds the rampino who swore to mount guard.’

‘He might have slipped in for a drink,’ said Dickie. ‘You gave him the wherewithal, and he has to live like others.’

‘Well, in that case, the boy would see—what?’

‘Just that bit of tarpaulin stuff, humped up in the middle.’

‘What would he do, then? Put yourself in his place, Dickie.’

Dickie grimaced slightly.

‘I suppose he’d think the man was resting under the water-proof and he’d say, “Hullo, there!” in that ear-splitting voice Italians have, fit to wake. . . .’

‘Yes, yes. And then?’

‘Then perhaps, as he seems an enterprising child, he’d descend into the hold and give the tarpaulin a tweak and—well, I suppose he’d stop shouting,’ concluded Dickie lamely. ‘He’d see it was no good. You must own,’ he added, ‘it’s simpler to assume that half way down the street he met a pal who told him he was being ragged: then he hung about and smoked a cigarette and returned puffing with this cock-and-bull story—simply to get his own back on us.’

‘That is the most rational explanation,’ said Philip. ‘But just for fun, let’s suppose that when he called, the tarpaulin began to move and rear itself up and a hand came round the edge, and——’

There was a sound of feet scrunching on the stones, and the friends heard a respectful voice saying, ‘Per qui, signor Conte.’

At first they could only see the robust, white-waistcoated figure of the concierge advancing with a large air and steam-roller tread; behind him they presently descried another figure, a tall man dressed in dark clothes, who walked with a limp. After the concierge’s glorious effulgence, he seemed almost invisible.

‘Il Conte Giacomelli,’ announced the concierge, impressively.

The two Englishmen advanced with outstretched hands, but their guest fell back half a pace and raised his arm in the Roman salute.

‘How do you do?’ he said. His English accent was excellent. ‘I’m afraid I am a little late, no?’

‘Just a minute or two, perhaps,’ said Philip. ‘Nothing to speak of.’ Furtively, he stared at the Count. A branch of the overhanging ilex tree nearly touched his hat; he stood so straight and still in the darkness that one could fancy he was suspended from the tree.

‘To tell you the truth,’ said Dickie bluntly, ‘we had almost given you up.’

‘Given me up?’ The Count seemed mystified. ‘How do you mean, given me up?’

‘Don’t be alarmed,’ Philip laughingly reassured him. ‘He didn’t mean give you up to the police. To give up, you know, can mean so many things. That’s the worst of our language.’

‘You can give up hope, isn’t it?’ inquired the Count.

‘Yes,’ replied Philip cheerfully. ‘You can certainly give up hope. That’s what my friend meant: we’d almost given up hope of seeing you. We couldn’t give you up—that’s only an idiom—because, you see, we hadn’t got you.’

‘I see,’ said the Count. ‘You hadn’t got me.’ He pondered.

The silence was broken by Dickie.

‘You may be a good grammarian, Phil,’ he said, ‘but you’re a damned bad host. The Count must be famished. Let’s have some cocktails here and then go in to dinner.’

‘All right, you order them. I hope you don’t mind,’ he went on when Dickie had gone, ‘but we may be four at dinner.’

‘Four?’ echoed the Count.

‘I mean,’ said Philip, finding it absurdly difficult to explain, ‘we asked someone else as well. I—I think he’s coming.’

‘But that will be delightful,’ the Count said, raising his eyebrows slightly. “Why should I mind? Perhaps he is a friend of mine, too—your—your other guest?’

‘I don’t think he would be,’ said Philip, feeling more than ever at a loss. ‘He—he . . .’

‘He is not de notre monde, perhaps?’ the Count suggested, indulgently.

Philip knew that foreigners refer to distinctions of class more openly than we do, but all the same, he found it very difficult to reply.

‘I don’t know whether he belongs to our world or not,’ he began, and realizing the ludicrous appropriateness of the words, stopped suddenly. ‘Look here,’ he said, ‘I can’t imagine why my friend is staying so long. Shall we sit down? Take care!’ he cried as the Count was moving towards a chair. ‘It’s got a game leg—it won’t hold you.’

He spoke too late; the Count had already seated himself. Smiling, he said: ‘You see, she carries me all right.’

Philip marvelled.

‘You must be a magician.’

The Count shook his head. ‘No, not a magician, a—a . . .,’ he searched for the word. ‘I cannot explain myself in English. Your friend who is corning—does he speak Italian?’ Inwardly Philip groaned. ‘I—I really don’t know.’ The Count tilted his chair back.

‘I don’t want to be curious, but is he an Englishman, your friend?’

Oh God, thought Philip. Why on earth did I start this subject?

Aloud he said: ‘To tell you the truth I don’t know much about him.

That’s what I wanted to explain to you. We only saw him once and

we invited him through a third person.’

‘As you did me?’ said the Count, smiling.

‘Yes, yes, but the circumstances were different. We came on him by accident and gave him a lift.’

‘A lift?’ queried the Count. ‘You were in a hotel, perhaps?’

‘No,’ said Philip, laughing awkwardly. ‘We gave him a lift—a ride—in the gondola. How did you come?’ he added, thankful at last to have changed the subject.

‘I was given a lift, too,’ said the Count. ‘In a gondola?’

‘Yes, in a gondola.’

‘What an odd coincidence,’ said Philip.

‘So, you see,’ said the Count, ‘your friend and I will have a good deal in common.’

There was a pause. Philip felt a growing uneasiness which he couldn’t define or account for. He wished Dickie would come back: he would be able to divert the conversation into pleasanter channels. He heard the Count’s voice saying:

‘I’m glad you told me about your friend. I always like to know something about a person before I make his acquaintance.’

Philip felt he must make an end of all this. ‘Oh, but I don’t think you will make his acquaintance,’ he cried. ‘You see, I don’t think he exists. It’s all a silly joke.’

‘A joke?’ asked the Count.

‘Yes, a practical joke. Don’t you in Italy have a game on the first of April making people believe or do silly things ? April Fools, we call them.’

‘Yes, we have that custom,’ said the Count, gravely, ‘only we call them pesci d’Aprile—April Fish.’

‘Ah,’ said Philip, ‘that’s because you are a nation of fishermen. An April fish is a kind of fish you don’t expect—something you pull out of the water and——’