eleven o'clock
They came presently to the fen lands -- the Campagna that so greatly needs the magic and glamour of the Roman sunshine , the vault of the blue sky above , and the sound of larks singing to adorn it . It seemed a desolate and dreary waste , wind-swept , and shivering under the lash of the rain on such a morning as this , and the car was a very small thing moving in that apparently illimitable plain along a road that might be endless . Jean saw a herd of the wild , black buffaloes standing in a pool at the foot of a broken arch of the Claudian aqueduct , and now and again he caught a glimpse of fragments of masonry , or a ruined tower , ancient stronghold of one or other of the robber barons who preyed on Rome-ward pilgrims in the age of faith and rapine . They reached Albano soon after eleven o'clock , and Jean left his man in the car while he went in to the Ristorante of the Albergo della Posta . He ordered a cup of coffee , and sat down at one of the little marble tables near the door to drink it . There was no one else in the place at the moment . `` Can you tell me the way to the Villino Bella Vista ? ''