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Suddenly a side door opened, and the cook put his
head in to speak with his master in French. He was a typical Italian,
about forty, with dark mustaches turned upwards, and an easy-going,
careless manner. Seeing me, however, and believing me to be a customer,
he turned and closed the door quickly. In that instant I noticed the
high broadness of his shoulders, and his back struck me as strangely
similar to that of the man in brown whom we had seen disappearing in
Rannoch Wood.
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
laughed, when the side door had closed.
"Yes, m'sieur. But Emilio is a very good workman--and very honest, even
though I had constantly to complain that he uses too much oil in his
cooking.


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