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My eye caught the customer who, on the entry of Olinto, had dropped his
paper and sat staring at him in wonderment. The detective had evidently
been furnished with a photograph of the dead man, and now, like myself,
discovered him alive and living.
"Signor Padrone!" cried the man whose appearance was so absolutely
bewildering. "How did you find me here? I admit that I deceived you when
I told you I worked at the Milano," he went on rapidly in Italian. "But
it was under compulsion--my actions that night were not my own--but
those of others."
"Yes, I understand," I said. "But come out into the street. I don't wish
to speak before these people. Your padrone knows Italian, no doubt."
"Ah! only a very little," he answered, smiling. "Have no fear of him."
"But there is Emilio, the cook?"
"Then you have met him!" he exclaimed quickly, with a strange look of
apprehension. "He is an undesirable person, signore."
"So I gather," I answered. "But I desire to speak to you outside--not
here.


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