“So it seems,” I said, nevertheless only half convinced that the Italian was telling me the truth.  If it was really, as he had said, that the arrival of Chater and the flight was merely a “blind,” then the mystery was again deepened.

“Then who was the man who attacked Chater?” I asked.

“Only Chater himself knows.  It was one of the guests, that is quite evident.”

“And you say that the flight had been prearranged?” I remarked.

“Yes, with a distinct motive,” he said; then, after a pause, he added, with a strange, earnest look in his dark eyes, “Pardon me, Signor Commendatore, if I presume to suggest something, will you not?”

“Certainly.  What do you suggest?”

“That you should remain here, in this hotel, and not venture out.”

“For fear of something unfortunate happening to me!” I laughed.  “I’m really not afraid, Olinto,” I added.  “You know I carry this,” and I drew out my revolver from my hip-pocket.

“I know, signore,” he said anxiously.  “But you might not be afforded opportunity for using it.  When they lay a trap they bait it well.”

“I know.  They’re a set of the most ingenious scoundrels in London, it is very evident.  Yet I don’t fear them in the least,” I declared.  “I must rescue the Signorina Heath.”

“But, signore, have a care for yourself,” cried the Italian, laying his hand upon my arm.  “You are a marked man.  Ah! do I not know,” he exclaimed breathlessly.  “If you go out you may run right into—­well, the fatal accident.”

“Never fear, Olinto,” I said reassuringly.  “I shall keep my eyes well open.  Here, in London, one’s life is safer than anywhere else in the world, perhaps—­certainly safer than in some places I could name in your own country, eh?” at which he grinned.

The next moment he grew serious again, and said: 

“I only warn the signore that if he goes out it is at his own peril.”

“Then let it be so,” I laughed, feeling self-confident that no one could lead me into any trap.  I was neither a foreigner nor a country cousin.  I knew London too well.  He was silent and shook his head; then, after telling me that he was still at the same restaurant in Westbourne Grove, he took his departure, warning me once more not to go forth.

Half an hour later, disregarding his words, I strode out into the Strand, and again walked round to the “Junior.”  The short wintry day had ended, the gas-lamps were lit, and the darkness of night was gradually creeping on.

Jack had not been to the club, and I began now to grow thoroughly uneasy.  He had parted from me at the corner of the Strand with only a five minutes’ walk before him, and yet he had apparently disappeared.  My first impulse was to drive to Notting Hill to inquire of Muriel if she had news of him, but somehow the Italian’s warning words made me wonder if he had met with foul play.

I suddenly recollected those two men who had passed by as we had talked, and how that the features of one had seemed strangely familiar.  Therefore I took a cab to the police-station down at Whitehall, and made inquiry of the inspector on duty in the big bare office with its flaring gas-jets in wire globes.  He heard me to the end, then turning back the book of “occurrences” before him, glanced through the ruled entries.