“I’ll give you half-a-sovereign if you’ll answer my questions truthfully.  Now, tell me, was the cook, the man I’ve just seen, here yesterday?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was he here the day before?”

“No, sir.  He’s been away ill for four days.”

“And your master?”

“He’s been away too, sir.”

I had no time to put any further question, for the Russian re-entered at that moment, and the youth busied himself rubbing the front of the counter in pretense that I had not spoken to him.  Indeed, I had some difficulty in slipping the promised coin into his hand at a moment when his master was not looking.

Then I paced up and down the restaurant, waiting patiently and wondering whether the absence of Emilio had any connection with the tragedy up in Rannoch Wood.

While I stood there a rather thin, respectably-dressed man entered, and seating himself upon one of the plush lounges at the further end, removed his bowler hat and ordered from the proprietor a chop and a pot of tea.  Then, taking a newspaper from his pocket, he settled himself to read, apparently oblivious to his surroundings.

And yet as I watched I saw that over the top of his paper he was carefully taking in the general appearance of the place, and his eyes were keenly following the Russian’s movements.  The latter shouted—­in French—­the order for the chop through the speaking-tube to the man Emilio, and then returning to his customer he spread out a napkin and placed a small cruet, with knife, fork, and bread before him.  But the customer seemed immersed in his paper, and never looked up until after the Russian’s back was turned.  Then so deep was his interest in the place, and so keen those dark eyes of his, that the truth suddenly dawned upon me.  Mackenzie had telegraphed to Scotland Yard, and the customer sitting there was a detective who had come to investigate.  I had advanced to the counter to chat again with the proprietor, when a quick step behind me caused me to turn.

Before me stood the slim figure of a man in a straw hat and rather seedy black jacket.

“Dio Signor Padrone!” he cried.

I staggered as though I had received a blow.

Olinto Santini in the flesh, smiling and well, stood there before me!

CHAPTER VIII

LIFE’S COUNTER-CLAIM

No words of mine can express my absolute and abject amazement when I faced the man, whom I had seen lying cold and dead upon that gray stone slab in the mortuary at Dumfries.

My eye caught the customer who, on the entry of Olinto, had dropped his paper and sat staring at him in wonderment.  The detective had evidently been furnished with a photograph of the dead man, and now, like myself, discovered him alive and living.

“Signor Padrone!” cried the man whose appearance was so absolutely bewildering.  “How did you find me here?  I admit that I deceived you when I told you I worked at the Milano,” he went on rapidly in Italian.  “But it was under compulsion—­my actions that night were not my own—­but those of others.”