The lunch was a merry one, as shooting luncheons usually are, and while we ate the keepers packed our morning bag—­a considerable one—­into the Perth-cart in waiting.  Then, when we could wander away alone together, I explained to Muriel that the reason of my sudden journey to London was in order to continue my investigations regarding the mysterious affair.

This puzzled her, for I had not, of course, revealed to her that I had identified Olinto.  Yet I managed to make such excuses and promises to return that I think allayed all her suspicions, and that night, after calling upon the detective Mackenzie, I took the sleeping-car express to Euston.

The restaurant which Hutcheson had indicated was, I found, situated about half-way up Westbourne Grove, nearly opposite Whiteley’s, a small place where confectionery and sweets were displayed in the window, together with long-necked flasks of Italian chianti, chump-chops, small joints and tomatoes.  It was soon after nine o’clock when I entered the long shop with its rows of marble-topped tables and greasy lounges of red plush.  An unhealthy-looking lad was sweeping out the place with wet saw-dust, and a big, dark-bearded, flabby-faced man in shirt-sleeves stood behind the small counter polishing some forks.

“I wish to see Signor Ferrari,” I said, addressing him.

“There is no Ferrari, he is dead,” responded the man in broken English.  “My name is Odinzoff.  I bought the place from madame.”

“You are Russian, I presume?”

“Polish, m’sieur—­from Varsovie.”

I had seen from the first moment we had met that he was no Italian.  He was too bulky, and his face too broad and flat.

“I have come to inquire after a waiter you have in your service, an Italian named Santini.  He was my servant for some years, and I naturally take an interest in him.”

“Santini?” he repeated.  “Oh I you mean Olinto?  He is not here yet.  He comes at ten o’clock.”

This reply surprised me.  I had expected the restaurant-keeper to express regret at his disappearance, yet he spoke as though he had been at work as usual on the previous day.

“May I have a liqueur brandy?” I asked, seeing that I would be compelled to take something.  “Perhaps you will have one with me?”

“Ach no!  But a kuemmel—­yes, I will have a kuemmel!” And he filled our glasses, and tossed off his own at a single gulp, smacking his lips after it, for the average Russian dearly loves his national decoction of caraway seeds.

“You find Olinto a good servant, I suppose?” I said, for want of something else to say.

“Excellent.  The Italians are the best waiters in the world.  I am Russian, but dare not employ a Russian waiter.  These English would not come to my shop if I did.”

I looked around, and it struck me that the trade of the place mainly consisted in chops and steaks for chance customers at mid-day, and tea and cake for those swarms of women who each afternoon buzz around that long line of windows of the “world’s provider.”  I could see that his was a cheap trade, as revealed by the printed notice stuck upon one of the long fly-blown mirrors:  “Ices 4d and 6d.”