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"I must go up to London to-night," whereat the men, one and all, expressed hope that I should soon return. Leithcourt's party were a friendly set, and at heart I was sorry to leave Scotland. Yet the telegram made it imperative, for it was from Frank Hutcheson in Leghorn, and read "Made inquiries. Olinto Santini married your servant Armida at Italian Consulate-General in London about a year ago.
"He was not a guest of Leithcourt when this man representing Santini was assassinated?" asked Kampf, again stroking his beard. "No. As soon as Woodroffe recognized me as a visitor he left for Hamburg."
When she entered the room with folding doors into which I had been shown, I saw that she was pale and apprehensive, for we had not met since her flight, and she was, no doubt, at a loss for an explanation. But I did not press her for one. I merely told her that the Italian Santini had given me her address and that I came as bearer of unfortunate news. "What is it?" she gasped quickly.
But he was masquerading as Santini made up to resemble him, I mean, even to the mole upon his face." "But you identified him positively?" "When a person is dead it is very easy to mistake countenances. Death alters the countenance so very much." "That's true," he said reflectively. "But if the man we've buried is not the Italian, then the mystery is considerably increased.
Sometimes they traveled for the purpose of disposing of the jewels in various inland towns where the gems, having been recut, were not recognized, while at other times, Chater and Archer, assisted by Mackintosh, the captain, and Olinto Santini, the steward, sailed for a port, landed, committed a robbery, and then sailed away again, quite unsuspected, as rich Englishmen." "And the crew?"
I came here to see you privately, and in private will I speak. I have certain information that will, I feel confident, be of the utmost interest to you concerning another woman, Armida Santini." His lips were pressed together, and I noticed how he started when I uttered the name of that woman whom I had found dead in Rannoch Wood, and whose body had so mysteriously disappeared.
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?"
"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.
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