It was soon after nine o'clock when I entered the long shop with its rows of marble-topped tables and greasy lounges of red plush.

An unhealthy-looking lad was sweeping out the place with wet saw-dust, and a big, dark-bearded, flabby-faced man in shirt-sleeves stood behind the small counter polishing some forks.
"I wish to see Signor Ferrari," I said, addressing him.
"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.

He was my servant for some years, and I naturally take an interest in him." "Santini ?" he repeated.