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I had idled away a pleasant month up in Buxton, and from there had gone
north to the Lakes, and it was one hot evening in mid-August that I
found myself again in London, crossing St. James's Square from the
Sports Club, where I had dined, walking towards Pall Mall. Darkness had
just fallen, and there was that stifling oppression in the air that
fore-tokened a thunderstorm. The club was not gay with life and
merriment as it is in the season, for everyone was away, many of the
rooms were closed for re-decoration, and most of the furniture swathed
in linen.
I was on my way to pay a visit to a lady who lived up at Hampstead, a
friend of my late mother's, and had just turned into Pall Mall, when a
voice at my elbow suddenly exclaimed in Italian--
"Ah, signore!--why, actually, my padrone!"
And looking round, I saw a thin-faced man of about thirty, dressed in
neat but rather shabby black, whom I instantly recognized as a man who
had been my servant in Leghorn for two years, after which he had left to
better himself.


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