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
pape