But the usher was dozing again, and was only roused by the return of the _delegato_, who ordered him to conduct Benedetto to the Signor Commendatore.

[Footnote: Commendatore: a title borne by those upon whom certain Italian orders have been conferred .-- _Translator's Note_.] Benedetto was introduced into a spacious apartment, all dark save in one corner, where a gentleman about fifty years of age sat reading the _Tribuna_ by the light of an electric lamp, which shone upon his bald head, upon the newspaper, and upon the table, littered with documents.
Above him, in the dim light, a large portrait of the King was dimly visible.
He did not at once raise his head--heavy with conscious power--from the newspaper.

He raised it when he felt inclined to do so, and looked carelessly at this atom of the people who stood before him.
"Be seated," he said in a frigid tone.
Benedetto obeyed.
"You are Signor Maironi ?" "Yes, sir." "I am sorry to have troubled you, but it was necessary." There was harshness and sarcasm underlying the Signor Commendatore's courteous words.
"By the way," he said, "why are you not called by your real name ?" Benedetto did not answer this unexpected question at once.
"Well, well," his interlocutor continued.

"It is not of much importance at present.

We are not in a court of justice.