“How long has Olinto been with you?” I inquired.

“About a year—­perhaps a little more.  I trust him implicitly, and I leave him in charge when I go away for holidays.  He does not get along very well with the cook—­who is Milanese.  These Italians from different provinces always quarrel,” he added, laughing.  “If you live in Italy you know that, no doubt.”

I laughed in chorus, and then glancing at my watch, said:  “I’ll wait for him, if he will be here at ten.  I’d much like to see him again.”

The Russian was by no means nonplused, but merely remarked—­

“He is late sometimes, but not often.  He lives on the other side of London—­over at Camberwell.”  His confidence that the waiter would return struck me as extremely curious; nevertheless I possessed myself in patience, strolled up and down the restaurant, and then stood watching the traffic in the Grove outside.

The man Odinzoff seemed a quick, hard-working fellow with a keen eye to business, for he fell to polishing the top of the marble tables with a pail and brush, at the same time directing the work of the pallid-looking youth.  Suddenly a side door opened, and the cook put his head in to speak with his master in French.  He was a typical Italian, about forty, with dark mustaches turned upwards, and an easy-going, careless manner.  Seeing me, however, and believing me to be a customer, he turned and closed the door quickly.  In that instant I noticed the high broadness of his shoulders, and his back struck me as strangely similar to that of the man in brown whom we had seen disappearing in Rannoch Wood.

The suspicion held me breathless.

Was this Russian endeavoring to deceive me when he declared that Olinto would arrive in a few minutes?  It seemed curious, for the man now dead must, I reflected, have been away at least four days.  Surely his absence from work had caused the proprietor considerable inconvenience?

“That was your cook, wasn’t it?  The Milanese who is quarrelsome?” I laughed, when the side door had closed.

“Yes, m’sieur.  But Emilio is a very good workman—­and very honest, even though I had constantly to complain that he uses too much oil in his cooking.  These English do not like the oil.”

I stood in the doorway again watching the busy throng passing outside towards Royal Oak.  Ten o’clock struck from a neighboring church, and I still waited, knowing only too well that I waited in vain for a man whose body had already been committed to the grave outside that far-away old Scotch town.  But I waited in order to ascertain the motive of the bearded Russian in leading me to believe that the young fellow would really return.

Presently Odinzoff went outside, carrying with him two boards upon which the menu of the “Eight-penny Luncheon!  This Day!” was written in scrawly characters, and proceeded to affix them to the shop-front.

This was my opportunity, and quick as thought I moved towards where the unhealthy youth was at work, and whispered: