. The walls had been freshly whitewashed. Their smooth
whiteness suggested wonderful possibilities for despoliation, the
drawing of a picture, the writing of a poem, the careless writhing
autograph that caused my relatives so much despair.

"Have all the masters slept here?" I asked carelessly.

"All."

"Was there one by the name of George Seabrook?"

"I think so. But they come and go. I am old and forget."

"And all these masters, none of them ever wrote on the walls?"

"Of a certainty. All wrote with pencil what they desired to write. Who
should say they should not? For did not the villa belong to them while
they were here? But always we prepared for the new master, and made the
walls clean and beautiful again."

"You were always sure that there would be a new master?"

"Certainly. Someone must pay us our wages."

I gravely placed a gold piece in his itching palm, asking, "What did
they write on the walls?"

He looked at me with old, unblinking eyes. Owl eyes! That is what they
were, and he slowly said,

"Each wrote or drew as his fancy led him, for they were the masters and
could do as they wished."

"But what were the words?"

"I cannot speak English, or read it."

Evidently, the man was not going to talk. To me the entire situation was
most interesting. Same servants, same villa, many masters. They came and
bought and wrote on the wall and left, and then my real-estate friend
sold the house again. A fine racket!

Downstairs, outdoors, under the grapevine, eating a good Italian meal,
looking at the wonderful view, I came to laugh at my suspicions. I ate
spaghetti, olives, dark bread and wine. Silence hung heavily over the
sullen sleepy afternoon. The sky became copper-colored. It was about to
rain. The old man came and showed me a place to put my car, a recess in
the wall of the house, open at one end, but sheltered from the weather.
The stone floor was black with grease; more than one automobile had been
kept there.

"Other cars have been here," I ventured.

"All the masters had cars," the old man replied.

* * * * *

Back on the stone gallery I waited for the storm to break. At last it
came in a solid wall of gray wetness across the valley. Nearer and
nearer it came till it deluged my villa and drove me inside.

The woman was lighting candles. I took one from her hand.

"I want to look through the house," I explained.

She made no protest; so I started exp