apprehensive
reflections that day as I walked those sordid back streets "over the
water," as the Cockney refers to the district between those two main
arteries of traffic, the Waterloo and Westminster Bridge Roads.

My unknown enemies had secured the services of Olinto in their dastardly
plot to kill me. With what motive?

I wondered as I crossed Waterloo Bridge to the Strand, whether Olinto
Santini would again approach me and make the promised explanation. I had
given my word not to prejudge him until he revealed to me the truth. Yet
I could not, in the circumstances, repose entire confidence in him.

When one's enemies are unknown, the feeling of apprehension is always
much greater, for in the imagination danger lurks in every corner, and
every action of a friend covers the ruse of a suspected enemy.

That day I did my business in the city with a distrust of everyone, not
knowing whether I was not followed or whether those who sought my life
were not plotting some other equally ingenious move whereby I might go
innocently to my death. I endeavored to discover Olinto by every
possible means during those stifling days that followed. The heat of
London was, to me, more oppressive than the fiery sunshine of the
old-world Tuscany, and everyone who could be out of town had left for
the country or the sea.

The only trace I found of the Italian was that he was registered at the
office of the International Society of Hotel Servants, in Shaftesbury
Avenue, as being employed at Gatti's Adelaide Gallery, but on inquiry
there I found he had left more than a year before, and none of his
fellow-waiters knew his whereabouts.

Thus being defeated in every inquiry, and my business at last concluded
in London, I went up to Dumfries on a duty visit which I paid annually
to my uncle, Sir George Little. Having known Dumfries since my earliest
boyhood, and having spent some years of my youth there, I had many
friends in the vicinity, for Sir George and my aunt were very popular in
the county and moved in the best set.

Each time I returned from abroad I was always a welcome guest at
Greenlaw, as their place outside the city of Burns was called, and this
occasion proved no exception, for the country houses of Dumfries are
always gay in August in prospect of the shooting.

"Some new people have taken Rannoch Castle. Rather nice they seem,"
remarked my aunt as we were sitting together at luncheon the day after
my arrival. "Their name