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_."

"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 re