Roguccio hastened to the gate and assisted the Count in descending. He then knocked on the door. The concierge, a tall dark figure like a shadow against the stars, opened.
"It is a relief effectively to see the owner of these premises," he said. "Our last proprietor, the Marquis d'Imrahil, was as invisible these last few years as if he had been possessed of a Ring of Power."
The Count laughed ironically. "The Marquis d'Imrahil ... I believe I know that name," he said.
"An elderly nobleman, faithful adherent of the Aragons; he had a single daughter who married M. de Villefaramir, steuard du roi, and subsequently died of..." (he lowered his voice) “of the hypochondria of Guimly."
The Count glanced at Roguccio, who was paler than the white chocolate of Minas-Morgoule.
"Merci, merci!" said the Count. "Give me a light, brave homme. Roguccio will accompany me." And he covered the concierge in mithril, giving rise to an explosion of blessings.
