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a heavy thing, but it went over with a satisfying crash. The manager leaped to his feet with a profane remark. Flat on my back, with the dog rapturously licking my face, I writhed and shrieked.
    “Help, help, get him off, he’s gnawing at my jugular!”
    The Englishman came trotting toward me. He didn’t trot fast, and I was infuriated to observe that instead of flying to my rescue he stopped to pick up the lamp and examine it, scowling, before he twisted his hand in the dog’s collar and yanked him off me. He did it effortlessly, although the animal must have weighed almost a hundred pounds.
    “Jugular indeed,” he said contemptuously. “Get up, young woman, and wipe your face. You have damaged a very valuable lamp. Bruno!”
    I thought he was talking to the dog, for the poor creature immediately lay down at his feet, cringing. But Bruno was a man — a swarthy, heavy-set, villainous-looking fellow who came rushing in from the back of the shop brandishing a heavy stick. The Englishman caught this weapon as Bruno was about to bring it down on the dog’s back.
    “Stop it, you fool,” he said in Italian.
    “But he is a killer,” snarled Bruno. “See, he has attacked me, ripped my shirt—”
    “Intelligent dog. Good taste — sartorial and otherwise…. Leave the animal alone, cretin. Americans are foolish about animals; she’ll have the police on us if you aren’t careful.”
    The word cretino is a particularly nasty insult in Italian. Bruno’s unshaven jowls darkened and his eyes narrowed; but after a moment he shrugged, lowered the stick, and snapped his fingers.
    “Come, Caesar.”
    The dog followed him, belly down on the floor. It made me sick to watch. The Englishman’s face was quite impassive throughout this exchange — which, naturally, I pretended not to understand — and my initial dislike for him took a great leap forward. Usually the English are fond of dogs. Obviously this one was a degenerate specimen. It confirmed my conviction that he was a crook.
    I scrambled to my feet, unaided by any gentleman, and brushed my dusty skirt.
    “The lamp,” said the Englishman, eyeing me coldly.
    “My ribs,” I said, just as coldly. “Now don’t give me any nonsense about paying for the lamp. You’re lucky I don’t sue you. What do you mean, keeping a dangerous animal like that around?”
    He didn’t speak for a moment, he just stood there with his hands in the pockets of his beautifully tailored jacket. His face was superbly controlled, but as the seconds ticked away I had an uncomfortable impression that all sorts of ideas were burgeoning behind the bland facade.
    “You are quite right,” he said finally. “I must apologize. In fact, we owe you more than an apology. Perhaps you had better consult a doctor, to make sure you are not injured.”
    “Oh, that’s all right,” I said. “I’m not hurt, just shaken.”
    “But your dress.” He was all charm now, smiling, showing even white teeth. “At the very least it will need to be cleaned. You must let us pay for it. Do give me your name and the name of your hotel, so we can make good the damage.”
    I wanted to swear. There was a good mind behind that handsome face of his, and now he had me neatly boxed in. He knew enough about animals to draw the proper conclusion from the dog’s behavior. He couldn’t be positive that I was the midnight intruder, but he was damned suspicious, and if I refused to give him my name, his suspicions would be strengthened. Furthermore, he was quite capable of having me followed; that’s what I would have done if I had been in his shoes. So whether I refused to answer, or gave him a false name, he could check up on me. I wasn’t a professional, there was no way I could hope to shake off an anonymous follower who would probably look exactly like half a million other Roman men. The only possible course now was to tell the truth arid hope that my candor would disarm his suspicion.
    So I told him who I was and