earier in the world than
a foreign hotel out of the season. In this particular instance I seemed
to have the entire building to myself. The long corridors were innocent
of the step of a stranger foot, and when I sat down to lunch in the
great dining-hall, I had not only the room, but the entire staff, or
what was left of it, to wait upon me.

I had just finished my meal, and was wondering in what manner I could
spend the afternoon, when a waiter approached and placed a note beside
my plate. Had I never seen the writer, I should have been able to guess
his profession by his penmanship. The caligraphy displayed upon the
envelope was too perfect not to be professional, and, as I looked at it,
it seemed to me I could see the queer, sparrow-like head of the writer
bending over it and smell the odour of the dried herbs and the still
drier violins hanging up in that quaint old shop to which I had paid a
visit that morning. On the top was my name and address in my own
writing, and below it the direction furnished me by Sir George Legrath.
Seeing that there was nothing new on that side, I took it to the window,
and, turning it over, read as follows:

"If Mr. Forrester desires to meet the person of whom he spoke this
morning he should be in the Temple of Mercury at Pompeii this afternoon
at four o'clock. Provided he brings no one with him, he will be
permitted the interview he seeks."

There was no signature, and nothing but the penmanship to show from whom
it emanated; that it was genuine, however, I did not for a moment doubt.
I looked at my watch, and finding that as yet it was scarcely half past
one, tried to make up my mind whether I should go by train or drive. The
afternoon would be hot, I was very well aware, and so would a long drive
in an open carriage be; but the train would be hotter still. Eventually
I decided for the road, and immediately despatched a waiter in search of
a conveyance. Of the carriage and horses there is nothing to be said,
and save the view, which is always beautiful, but little in favour of
the drive. It was a quarter to four when I alighted at the entrance to
the ruins, and by that time I was covered from head to foot with a
coating of that indescribable dust so peculiar to Naples.

Informing the cabman that I should return to the city by train, I paid
the admission fee and, declining the services of a guide, entered the
grounds, keeping my eyes wide open, as you may suppose, for the man I
had