William Le Queux

“ And he filled our glasses, and tossed off his own at a single gulp, smacking his lips after it, for the average Russian dearly loves his national decoction of caraway seeds.
"You find Olinto a good servant, I suppose?" I said, for want of something else to say.
"Excellent. The Italians are the best waiters in the world. I am Russian, but dare not employ a Russian waiter. ”

“ 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. "Oh I you mean Olinto? He is not here yet. He comes at ten o'clock." ”

“ The Russian was by no means nonplused, but merely remarked--
"He is late sometimes, but not often. He lives on the other side of London--over at Camberwell." His confidence that the waiter would return struck me as extremely curious; nevertheless I possessed myself in patience, strolled up and down the restaurant, and then stood watching the traffic in the Grove outside. ”