We had become good friends in Richmond, despite the detective’s suspicion of everything that tended to make life and his profession romantic. This tendency of his spoiled many a good story. Nevertheless, I was very glad to see him now. He had not changed much. Smith never did look the usual police detective so easily ridiculed upon the stage. He was given to shell-rimmed glasses, an impassive though kindly face, and he always impressed you at first sight as a humdrum mediocrity. In any crowd he was just the average man. In Havana, with flannels, panama and a deep coat of tan, he seemed the typical tourist. He wanted to know my immediate purpose in life, and I told him of my experience with Mrs. Breese. He listened carefully. When I was done, he said: “That’s very funny, because I was just talking about the lady this morning with--well, I never will remember his name. He’s a Russian.” Smith chuckled. “Strange duck! But I kind of like him. He’s going to meet me here later and I’ll introduce him to you.” “Who is he?” I demanded. “Well,” drawled Smith, “aside from the fact that I can’t remember his name, he showed me papers which prove that before the revolution he was a big gun with the Czarist police. He’ll tell you all about himself the first five minutes. He’s not exactly modest. How much there is to him, I don’t know. He came into my office one day and said he had a mission. It seems he’d been working on some murder in Riga just before the revolution broke, and he was right on the track of it when the Bolsheviks threw him out. He seems to have enough money and time, and he’s still working on the case long distance. For some reason or other, he’s particularly interested in Mrs. Breese.” “But why?” Smith shrugged his shoulders. “He won’t tell me. He asked me to see if I couldn’t place him on our staff. He wasn’t interested in salary. Just wanted the job. Of course, I couldn’t. I promised I’d talk it over with the chief. But I knew it was no use. We didn’t know the man and we haven’t got room for him if we did.” Smith suddenly whispered out of the corner of his mouth: “Here he is now.” I observed a tall and well-made individual striding up to us. A giant in stature, he was an imposing sight and a remarkable contrast to Smith. This man would be distinguishable in any crowd, with his barrel chest, enormous shoulders, his massive face, ornamented by a proud and well-combed mustache of the Russian school, from which peered small blue eyes. He was impeccably dressed in flashing white linen, and as he walked he swung a heavy silver-headed cane as if it were a swagger stick. “Hello, there,” Smith said. “I’ve talked it over with them but they can’t see it. Sorry!” The big man bowed. “Thank you. I did not expect otherwise.” His words were clipped, military. “I deeply appreciate your efforts.” Smith introduced us.