Although the police were reluctant to arrest the young nobleman, they were compelled to warn him not to leave the country. Detectives insisted upon prowling about the estate, and what had once been the scene of unrestrained festivity became the laboratory of a crime. Of course, the Countess at first refused to believe a word against her husband, despite the damning circumstantial evidence. Mrs. Breese and Mr. Breese, however, were for once united in the opinion that it was distinctly up to the bridegroom to clear himself. It was at this time that the Russian detective was summoned to help unravel the mystery. After a lengthy talk with the Count, my informant was convinced that the solution of the murder lay elsewhere. He promptly set to work. But shortly after he arrived, Mrs. Breese insisted she must go home, and suggested her daughter go with her. Mary Rose Breese, now the Countess Giering-Trelovitch, fell in with the plan, for the atmosphere of suspicion and hostility that followed the murder of the Baron was hardly in keeping with the glorious honeymoon she had pictured to herself. But she did not want to leave the Count behind, and suggested he come with them. Unfortunately, he had not told her he was practically under house arrest, and when this confession was extorted from him, she was horrified. Then, events beyond the power of Mrs. Breese intervened. The Russian revolution, long smouldering, now blazed in full force, and reached even Riga, long after it was an accomplished fact in Petrograd. The local police were ousted, and the murder of the Baron was swallowed in the explosion. The Count fled with the Breese ménage to Paris. But if the Count was no longer in danger from official prosecution, suspicion still clung to him. He noted in despair that his bride became more and more reluctant to meet him. Matters were not helped when his estates were confiscated and he was left a pittance. Now his position was difficult indeed. One morning Mrs. Breese, in her high-handed fashion, announced that she was sailing for America in a few days. Her daughter, she said, would accompany her. The meaning of this was perfectly clear to the Count. Heart-broken, despondent at his reverses, he stolidly consented to a divorce. “I myself was in Paris then,” the Russian said. “I, too, had to flee, for although I am not a Czarist in spirit, my connection with the police damned me in the eyes of the revolutionists. Naturally, I spent a good deal of time with the Count, for I had grown to like him very, very much.