“This is a newspaper friend of mine, Mr. Abbott,” he turned to the Russian apologetically. “I forget your name. I’m sorry. I was never much good on Russian names.” “Boris Sergeivitch Perutkin, formerly of the Russian Secret Police,” the big man prompted, and bowed. “So you are a newspaper man. I am indeed pleased to meet you.” Smith looked at his watch. “I’ve got a date downtown,” he said. “But I’ll be back in an hour. By the way,”--he turned to the Russian. “Mr. Abbott here has just come down from New York with the Breese family. Maybe he can tell you what you want to know.” The Russian’s little blue eyes were trained on me. “So! That is very interesting. You must join me in a glass.” “And,” Smith continued, “you’ll find that Mr. Abbott can be trusted. I’ve known him a long time.” “I am sure of Mr. Abbott,” the Russian bowed politely, as Smith left us. Then he turned to the bartender: “_Cordon rouge_--the same as I had last night.” He turned back to me. “Do you mind champagne? I drink nothing else.” We seated ourselves in a corner far from the other patrons of the bar, and soon the glasses with yellow magic were before us. The Russian sipped his drink slowly, with the air of a connoisseur. He did not at once ask anything of Mrs. Breese, but instead discussed far-flung topics from American politics to horses. I had an uneasy feeling that he was testing me. He seemed anxious to know everything that had happened to me since I was a child in swaddling clothes. Then, suddenly, his adroit questioning ceased, and he told me about himself. “I am that anomaly,” he smiled, “a detective without a country. But I have a case--a very peculiar case. I have devoted six years to its solution, and I am still far from it. Mr. Smith says you can be trusted. I am going to tell you about that case, because you may be of great help to me. You know Mrs. Breese well?” I said I knew her fairly well, but that I was no longer connected with her household. “That does not matter,” he responded. “The difficulty hitherto has been that I could not legitimately gain access to the most important circle in my case. I conceive of my case as a series of circles, criss-crossing each other. In one of these circles my case is as plain as a photograph. I have not yet reached that circle. Perhaps you can help me.” My face showed I was puzzled. He laughed. “Of course, you do not understand me. Let me put it this way. Who were your fellow-passengers on the yacht?” I enumerated them: Mrs. Breese, her two children, Gordon Rice and Guy Thomas. “Excellent!” murmured the Russian. “There is only one absent. Six years ago, Mr. Abbott, Mrs. Breese, her two children, Gordon Rice and Guy Thomas were in Riga. But Mr. Breese was there, too. He is the only one absent.” “But I don’t see the significance,” I protested.