Therefore, then and there, I took a sheet of paper and wrote to my old friend Hutcheson at Leghorn, asking him to make immediate inquiry of Olinto's father as to his son's address in London. I said nothing to the police of that strange adventure of mine over in Lambeth, or of how the man now dead had saved my life. That his enemies were my own he had most distinctly told me, therefore I felt some apprehension that I myself was not safe. Yet in my hip pocket I always carried my revolver--just as I did in Italy--and I rather prided myself on my ability to shoot straight. We sat for a long time discussing the strange affair. In order to betray no eagerness to get away, I offered the big Highlander a cigar from my case, and we smoked together. The inquiry would be held on the morrow, he told me, but as far as the public was concerned the body would remain as that of some person "unknown." "And you had better not come to my uncle's house, or send anyone," I said. "If you desire to see me, send me a line and I will meet you here in Dumfries. It will be safer." The officer looked at me with those keen eyes of his, and said: "Really, Mr. Gregg, I can't quite make you out, I confess. You seem to be apprehensive of your own safety. Why?" "Italians are a very curious people," I responded quickly. "Their vendetta extends widely sometimes." "Then you have reason to believe that the enemy of this poor fellow Santini may be your enemy also?" "One never knows whom one offends when living in Italy," I laughed, as lightly as I could, endeavoring to allay his suspicion. "He may have fallen beneath the assassin's knife by giving quite a small and possibly innocent offense to somebody. Italian methods are not English, you know." "By Jove, sir, and I'm jolly glad they're not!" he said. "I shouldn't think a police officer's life is a very safe one among all those secret murder societies I've read about." "Ah! what you read about them is often very much exaggerated," I assured him. "It is the vendetta which is such a stain upon the character of the modern Italian; and depend upon it this affair in Rannoch Wood is the outcome of some revenge or other--probably over a love affair." "But you will assist us, sir?" he urged. "You know the Italian language, which will be of great advantage; besides, the victim was your servant." "Be discreet," I said. "And in return I will do my very utmost to assist you in hunting down the assassin." And thus we made our compact. Half-an-hour after I was driving in the dog-cart through the pouring rain up the hill out of gray old Dumfries to my uncle's house. As I descended from the cart and gave it over to a groom, old Davis, the butler, came forward, saying in a low voice: "There's Miss Leithcourt waiting to see you, Mr. Gordon. She's in the morning-room, and been there an hour. She asked me not to tell anyone else she's here, sir." "Then my aunt has not seen her?" I exclaimed, scenting mystery in this unexpected visit.