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 footstep of some one entering the shop 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. My head reeled. I held my breath.
Olinto Santini in the flesh, smiling and well, stood there before me!
