“Well,” he said finally, “very funny thing happened. Last night old Breese called up and said he wanted to see me at his hotel--the Sevilla-Biltmore. Had something tremendously important and confidential. Hinted that it would be worth my while. I couldn’t make head or tail of it, but I promised I’d be over to see him.” “I wonder if anything’s happened,” I speculated. “What reason has he got to go to the police? And what did he mean by ‘worth your while’?” “I don’t know,” Smith confessed. “I couldn’t very well question him over the phone. I’m repeating to you all he said to me. I don’t even know how he got hold of my name. He never met me, and, as far as I know, never even heard of me.” Smith took out his cheap nickel-plated watch which he seemed to treasure above all earthly possessions. “I’ve got a date to see him in five minutes. Want to come over?” “I’ll be glad to,” I said, “but I may be in the way.” “That’s all right,” Smith assured me. “I kind of feel that I may need a witness, and I certainly need someone who knows the inside of that Breese family. Leave it to me.” It was only a short walk from my unpretentious hotel to the palatial Sevilla-Biltmore. Smith announced himself, and the elevator swept us up to the seventh story and the most splendid of suites. Mr. Breese greeted Smith cordially, but looked askance at me. Although I had seen him scores of times during the trial, he apparently had not recognized me, and Smith airily presented me as his assistant. Breese hesitated for a moment, then apparently decided to accept my presence. He asked us to make ourselves comfortable, and submitted a box of Partagas, a decanter of whiskey, a siphon and a bowl of ice. He seemed laboring hard to create an atmosphere of friendly good-will before he plunged into the business at hand. We chatted for a while of nothing in particular. Finally, lighting a cigar slowly, and glancing at Smith from under bristling grey eyebrows, he said: “I suppose you wonder why I called you.” “Yes,” Smith acknowledged, “you sounded kind of queer over the phone.” “I suppose I must have,” he smiled wrily. “I’ve been under a tremendous strain, let me tell you!” He gulped his whiskey and soda, and cleared his throat. “I don’t know exactly how to begin. I suppose the best thing I can do is to come right down to the heart of the problem. Let me ask you, Mr. Smith: Isn’t it a fact that it is a duty of the police to prevent crimes as well as punish the criminals?” Smith looked blank. “Why, sure,” he said finally. “Whenever we can we do try to prevent them.” “Very well, then. I know of a crime that is being contemplated at this very moment. What ought I to do?” “What kind of a crime?” Breese fixed the detective with his rather sharp eyes. “You know my position, Mr. Smith. You know my standing. You know I wouldn’t give false information. You know I’m a man of means.” Smith nodded.