“Certainly,” I said, and I took him in the lift up to my room.

“I have come to warn you, signore,” he said, when I had given him a seat.  “Your enemies mean harm to you.”

“And who are they, pray?” I asked, biting my lips.  “The same, I suppose, who prepared that ingenious trap in Lambeth?”

“I am not here to reveal to you who they are, signore, only to warn you to have a care of yourself,” was the Italian’s reply.

“Look here, Olinto!” I exclaimed determinedly, “I’ve had enough of this confounded mystery.  Tell me the truth regarding the assassination of your poor wife up in Scotland.”

“Ah, signore!” he answered sadly in a changed voice, “I do not know.  It was a plot.  Someone represented me—­but he was killed also.  They believed they had struck me down,” he added, with a bitter laugh.  “Poor Armida’s body was found concealed behind a rock on the opposite side of the wood.  I saw it—­ah!” he cried shuddering.

“Then you are ignorant of the identity of your wife’s assassin?”

“Entirely.”

“Tell me one thing,” I said.  “Did Armida possess any trinket in the form of a little enameled cross—­like a miniature cross of cavaliere?”

“Yes; I gave it to her.  I found it on the floor at the Mansion House, where I was engaged as odd waiter for a banquet.  I know I ought to have given it up to the Lord Mayor’s servants, but it was such a pretty little thing that I was tempted to keep it.  It probably had fallen from the coat of one of the diplomatists dining there.”

I was silent.  The faint suspicion that Oberg had been at that spot was now entirely removed.  The only clue I had was satisfactorily accounted for.

“Why do you ask, Signor Commendatore?” he added.

“Because the cross was found at the spot, and was believed to have been dropped by the assassin,” I said.

The police had, it seemed, succeeded in discovering the unfortunate woman after all, and had found that she was his wife.

“You know a man named Leithcourt?” I asked a few moments later.  “Now, tell the truth.  In this affair, Olinto, our interests are mutual, are they not?”

He nodded, after a moment’s hesitation.

“And you know also a man named Archer—­who is sometimes known as Hornby, or Woodroffe—­as well as a friend of his called Chater.”

“Si, signore,” he said.  “I have met them all—­to my regret.”

“And have you ever met a Russian—­a certain Baron Oberg—­and his niece, Elma Heath?”

“His niece?  She isn’t his niece.”

“Then who is she?” I demanded.

“How do I know?  I have seen her once or twice.  But she’s dead, isn’t she?  She knew the secret of those men, and they intended to kill her.  I tried to prevent them taking her away on the yacht, and I would have gone to the police—­only I dare not.”

“Why?”

“Well, because my own hands were not quite clean,” he answered after a pause, his eyes fixed upon mine the while.  “I knew they intended to silence her, but I was powerless to save her, poor young lady.  They took her on board Leithcourt’s yacht, the Iris, and they sailed for the Mediterranean, I believe.”