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Surely the less the police know about this matter the better, otherwise the Signorina Leithcourt must suffer for her father's avarice and evil-doing." "Yes," cried Jack anxiously. "That's right, Olinto. The police must know nothing. The reprisals we must make ourselves. But who was it who shot me in Suffolk Street?" "The same man, Martin Woodroffe." "Then the assassin is back from Russia?"
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 body was evidently not that of the person she had expected to find. "Who is she, I wonder?" my companion ejaculated. "Not a lady, evidently, by her dress and hands." "Evidently not," was my response, for I still deemed it best to keep my own counsel. I recollected the story Olinto had told me about his wife; of her illness and her longing to return to Italy.
In a moment they will be here upon you." "But who are they, Olinto? You must tell me," I cried in desperation. "Dio! Go! Go!" he cried, pushing me violently towards the door. "Fly, or we shall both die both of us! Run downstairs. I must make feint of dashing after you."
Olinto returned in a few moments, saying that his wife had evidently gone to do some shopping in the Lower-Marsh, for it is the habit of the denizens of that locality to go "marketing" in the evening among the costermongers' stalls that line so many of the thoroughfares. Perishable commodities, the overplus of the markets and shops, are cheaper at night than in the morning.
The suspicion held me breathless. Was this Russian endeavoring to deceive me when he declared that Olinto would arrive in a few minutes? It seemed curious, for the man now dead must, I reflected, have been away at least four days. Surely his absence from work had caused the proprietor considerable inconvenience? "That was your cook, wasn't it? The Milanese who is quarrelsome?"
"I hope you are not pressed for time, signore?" he said apologetically. "But, of course, the poor girl does not know the surprise awaiting her. She will surely not be long." "Then I'll wait," I said, and flung myself back into the chair he had brought forward for me. "I have nothing to offer you, signer padrone," he said, with a laugh. "I did not expect a visitor, you know." "No, no, Olinto.
A low-looking, evil-faced fellow opened the door to us and growled acquaintance with Olinto, who, striking a match, ascended the worn, carpetless stairs before me, apologizing for passing before me, and saying in Italian "We live at the top, signore, because it is cheaper and the air is better." "Quite right," I said. "Quite right. Go on." And I thought I heard my cab driving away.
"Of course, m'sieur," answered the Pole, bowing politely. "Speak with him where and how long you will. He is entirely at your service." And when we were outside in Westbourne Grove, Olinto walking by my side in wonderment, I asked suddenly: "Tell me. Have you ever been in Scotland at Dumfries?" "Never, signore, in my life. Why?" "Answer me another question," I said quickly.
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!
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