The Naples branch of the Company lay in the heart of the city. I took
a cab to a sort of dome-roofed thing called a _galleria_, and walked
under its skeletal steel ceiling to my new office. Once the _galleria_
had been roofed with glass, but the glass had powdered down from the
concussion of the Mt. Vesuvius bomb, or the Capodichino bomb, or one of
the other hammerblows the Sicilians had rained on the principality of
Naples in the recent unpleasantness.
I entered the office and looked around. The blonde girl named Susan
appeared to double as the office receptionist. She nodded efficiently
and waved me to a fenced-off enclosure where Sam Gogarty sat, plump
and untroubled, at an enormous desk.