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the Venetians. “When my half of this is presented to your descendants, one hundred years from today, the bearer will be due the full amount.”

      “Done, Sior Mister Smith!” Goldini said. “An amazing transaction, but done. Ten percent in this day is small indeed to ask.”

      “It is enough. And now may I make some suggestions? You are perhaps familiar with the Polo family?”

      Goldini scowled. “I know Sior Maffeo Polo.”

      “And his nephew, Marco?”

      Goldini said cautiously, “I understand young Marco was captured by the Genoese. Why do you ask?”

      “He is writing a book on his adventures in the Orient. It would be a well of information for a merchant house interested in the East. Another thing. In a few years there will be an attempt on the Venetian government and shortly thereafter a Council of Ten will be formed which will eventually become the supreme power of the republic. Support it from the first and make every effort to have your house represented.”

      They stared at him and Marin Goldini crossed himself unobtrusively.

      The stranger said, “If you find need for profitable investments beyond Venice I suggest you consider the merchants of the Hanse cities and their soon to be organized League.”

      They continued to stare and he said, uncomfortably, “I’ll go now. Your time is valuable.” He went to the door, opened it himself and left.

      Marin Goldini snorted. “That liar, Marco Polo.”

      Vico said sourly, “How could he have known we were considering expanding our activities into the East? We have discussed it only between ourselves.”

      “The attempt on the government,” Marin Goldini said, crossing himself again. “Was he hinting that our intriguing is known? Vico, perhaps we should disassociate ourselves from the conspirators.”

      “Perhaps you are right, Zelenza,” Vico muttered. He picked up one of the coins again and examined it, back and front. “There is no such nation,” he grumbled, “but the coin is perfectly minted.” He picked up the torn sheet of paper, held it to the light. “Nor have I ever seen such paper, Zelenza, nor such a strange language, although, on closer examination, it appears to have some similarities to the English tongue.”

      * * * *

      The House of Letta-Goldini was located now in the San Toma district, an imposing structure through which passed the proceeds of a thousand ventures in a hundred lands.

      Riccardo Letta looked up from his desk at his assistant. “Then he really has appeared? Per favore, Lio, bring me the papers pertaining to the, ah, account. Allow me a matter of ten minutes to refresh my memory and then bring the Sior to me.”

      The great grandson of Vico Letta, head of the House of Letta-Goldini, came to his feet elegantly, bowed in the sweeping style of his day, said, “Your servant, Sior...” The newcomer bobbed his head in a jerky, embarrassed return of the courtesy, said, “Mister Smith.”

      “A chair, Lustrissimo? And now, pray pardon my abruptness. One’s duties when responsible for a house of the magnitude of Letta-Goldini…”

      Mister Smith held out a torn sheet of paper. His Italian was abominable. “The agreement made with Marin Goldini, exactly one century ago.”

      Riccardo Letta took the paper. It was new, clean and fresh, which brought a frown to his high forehead. He took up an aged, yellowed fragment from before him and placed one against the other. They matched to perfection. “Amazing, Sior, but how can it be that my piece is yellow with age and your own so fresh?”

      Mister Smith cleared his throat. “Undoubtedly, different methods have been used to preserve them.”

      “Undoubtedly.” Letta relaxed in his chair, placed fingertips together. “And undoubtedly you wish your capital and the interest it has accrued. The amount is a sizable one, Sior; we shall find it necessary to call in various accounts.”

      Mister Smith shook his head. “I want to continue on the original basis.”

      Letta sat upright. “You mean for another hundred years?”

      “Precisely. I have faith in your management, Sior Letta.”

      “I see.” Riccardo Letta had not maintained his position in the cutthroat world of Venetian banking and commerce by other than his own ability. It took him only a moment to gather himself. “The appearance of your ancestor, Sior, has given rise to a veritable legend in this house. You are familiar with the details?”

      The other nodded, warily.

      “He made several suggestions, among them that we support the Council of Ten. We are now represented on the Council, Sior. I need not point out the advantage. He also suggested we investigate the travels of Marco Polo, which we failed to do—but should have. Above all in strangeness was his recommendation that investments be made in the Hanse towns.”

      “Well, and wasn’t that a reasonable suggestion?

      “Profitable, Sior, but hardly reasonable. Your ancestor appeared in the year 1300 but the Hanseatic League wasn’t formed until 1358.”

      The small man, strangely garbed in much the same manner tradition had it the first Mister Smith had appeared, twisted his face wryly. “I am afraid I am in no position to explain, Sior. And now, my own time is limited, and, in view of the present size of my investment, I am going to request you have drawn up a contract more binding than the largely verbal one made with the founders of your house.”

      Riccardo Letta rang a small bell on his desk and the next hour was spent with assistants and secretaries. At the end of that period, Mister Smith, a sheaf of documents in his hands, said, “And now may I make a few suggestions?”

      Riccardo Letta leaned forward, his eyes narrow. “By all means.”

      “Your house will continue to grow and you will have to think in terms of spreading to other nations. Continue to bank the Hanse cities. In the not too far future a remarkable man named Jacques Coeur will become prominent in France. Bring him into the firm as French representative. However, all support should be withdrawn from him in the year 1450.”

      Mister Smith stood up, preparatory to leaving. “One warning, Sior Letta. As a fortune grows large, the jackals gather. I suggest the magnitude of this one be hidden and diffused. In this manner temporary setbacks may be suffered through the actions of this prince, or that revolution, but the fortune will continue.”

      Riccardo Letta was not an overly religious man, but after the other had left he crossed himself as had his predecessor.

      * * * *

      There were twenty of them waiting in the year 1500. They sat about a handsome conference table, representatives of half a dozen nations, arrogant of mien, sometimes cruel of face. Waldemar Gotland acted as chairman.

      “Your Excellency,” he said in passable English, “may we assume this is your native language?”

      Mister Smith was taken aback by the number of them, but, “You may,” he said.

      “And that you wish to be addressed as Mister Smith in the English fashion?”

      Smith nodded. “That will be acceptable.”

      “Then, sir, if you will, your papers. We have named a committee, headed by Emil de Hanse, to examine them as to authenticity.”

      Smith handed over his sheaf of papers. “I desired,” he complained, “that this investment be kept secret.”

      “And it has been to the extent possible, Excellency. Its size is now fantastic. Although the name Letta-Goldini is still kept, no members of either family still survive. During the past century, Excellency, numerous attempts have been made to seize your fortune.”

      “To be expected,” Mister Smith said interestedly. “And what foiled them?”

      “Principally

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