“H’m.  And you say he’s a foreigner—­an Italian—­eh?”

“He was in my service in Leghorn for several years, and on leaving me he came to London and obtained an engagement as waiter in a restaurant.  His father lived in Leghorn; he was doorkeeper at the Prefecture.”

“But why was he here, in Scotland?”

“How can I tell?”

“You know something of the affair.  I mean that you suspect somebody, or you would have no objection to giving evidence at the inquiry.”

“I have no suspicions.  To me the affair is just as much of an enigma as to you,” I hastened at once to explain.  “My only fear is that if the assassin knew that I had identified him he would take care not to betray himself.”

“You therefore think he will betray himself?”

“I hope so.”

“By the fact that the man was attacked with an Italian stiletto, it would seem that his assailant was a fellow-countryman,” suggested the detective.

“The evidence certainly points to that,” I replied.

“You don’t happen to be aware of anyone—­any foreigner, I mean—­who was, or might be his enemy?”

I responded in the negative.

“Ah,” he went on, “these foreigners are always fighting among themselves and using knives.  I did ten years’ service in Edinburgh and made lots of arrests for stabbing affrays.  Italians, like Greeks, are a dangerous lot when their blood is up.”  Then he added:  “Personally, it seems to me that the murdered man was enticed from London to that spot and coolly done away with—­from some motive of revenge, most probably.”

“Most probably,” I said.  “A vendetta, perhaps.  I live in Italy, and therefore know the Italians well,” I added.

I had given him my card, and told him with whom I was staying.

“Where were you yesterday, sir?” he inquired presently.

“I was shooting—­on the other side of the Nithsdale,” I answered, and then went on to explain my movements, without, however, mentioning my visit to Rannoch.

“And although you know the murdered man so intimately, you have no suspicion of anyone in this district who was acquainted with him?”

“I know no one who knew him.  When he left my service he had never been in England.”

“You say he was engaged in service in London?”

“Yes, at a restaurant in Oxford Street, I believe.  I met him accidentally in Pall Mall one evening, and he told me so.”

“You don’t know the name of the restaurant?”

“He did tell me, but unfortunately I have forgotten.”

The detective drew a deep breath of regret.

“Someone who waited for him on the edge of that wood stepped out and killed him—­that’s evident,” he said.

“Without a doubt.”

“And my belief is that it was an Italian.  There were two foreigners who slept at a common lodging-house two nights ago and went on tramp towards Glasgow.  We have telegraphed after them, and hope we shall find them.  Scotsmen or Englishmen never use a knife of that pattern.”