.

With my own hand I re-covered the face with the sheet, and inwardly
resolved to avenge the dastardly crime.

I regretted that I was compelled to reveal the dead man's name to the
police, yet I saw that to make some statement was now inevitable, and
therefore I accompanied the constable to the inspector's office some
distance across the town.

Having been introduced to the big, fair-haired man in a rough tweed
suit, who was apparently directing the inquiries into the affair, he
took me eagerly into a small back room and began to question me. I was,
however, wary not to commit myself to anything further than the
identification of the body.

"The fact is," I said confidentially, "you must omit me from the
witnesses at the inquest."

"Why?" asked the detective suspiciously.

"Because if it were known that I have identified him, all chance of
getting at the truth will at once vanish," I answered. "I have come here
to tell you in strictest confidence who the poor fellow really is."

"Then you know something of the affair?" he said, with a strong Highland
accent.

"I know nothing," I declared. "Nothing except his name."

"H'm. And you say he's a foreigner--an Italian--eh?"

"He was in my service in Leghorn for several years, and on leaving me he
came to London and obtained an engagement as waiter in a restaurant. His
father lived in Leghorn; he was doorkeeper at the Prefecture."

"But why was he here, in Scotland?"

"How can I tell?"

"You know something of the affair. I mean that you suspect somebody, or
you would have no objection to giving evidence at the inquiry."

"I have no suspicions. To me the affair is just as much of an enigma as
to you," I hastened at once to explain. "My only fear is that if the
assassin knew that I had identified him he would take care not to betray
himself."

"You therefore think he will betray himself?"

"I hope so."

"By the fact that the man was attacked with an Italian stiletto, it
would seem that his assailant was a fellow-countryman," suggested the
detective.

"The evidence certainly points to that," I replied.

"You don't happen to be aware of anyone--any foreigner, I mean--who was,
or might be his enemy?"

I responded in the negative.

"Ah," he went on, "these foreigners are always fighting among themselves
and using knives. I did ten years' service in Edinburgh and made lots of
arrests for stabbing affrays. Italians, like Greeks, are a dangerous lot
when t