Our cab whirled past the grilled windows and stone fronts of the dark houses. The air was heavy with the perfume of a tropical night. The streets were practically deserted. Only an occasional hotel flared brilliantly as we raced by. Before I was quite aware of it, our driver had turned into Calle L and then stopped with a screeching of brakes, in the manner of Latin chauffeurs. The Gilded Cage was an imposing sight, beautifully white, with enormous marble pillars, huge mahogany doors, massive grilles to delight the heart of any lover of cunning ironwork, and a magnificent garden studded with royal palms that kept the vulgar street far from the inmates of the palace. As I came up the stairs to the terrace, Smith always slightly ahead of me, I noted an exquisite sculptured fountain piece of six nudes bending over still black water and glistening white in the moonlight. The palace was still as death. Only a faint light seemed to filter through from the reception-hall. The rest of the house seemed steeled in darkness. Smith pressed a tiny button set into a burnished gilt frame. A bell pealed softly within, and we heard footsteps. The huge door swung open, and an owlish-looking native policeman stared at us suspiciously, one hand at his revolver holster. But Smith displayed his credentials, and we were ushered in without further delay. In the reception-room, Smith at once reached for the telephone and notified the Cuban Secret Police he had taken charge of the case and that he was now at the scene of the murder. While he talked, I looked about me, and even in the faint light I was impressed with the curious fact that every bit of furniture in the reception-room was gilt. I noted particularly a fine Spanish clock of impressive proportions, with hands and case gaudily inlaid with gold; a full sweep of gold brocade curtains upon the French windows; and a great hall mirror likewise decorated. Smith informed me that his superiors had approved his handling of the case, and that a medical examiner would be despatched forthwith. The native policeman had arrived just a few moments before we did. Without further instruction on Smith’s part, he led us through a curtained door into the drawing-room. The room measured about thirty-five feet by forty, and about twenty feet in height. The floor was of gaily colored tile, the walls and ceiling panelled in rich mahogany. There were two enormous French windows leading to the garden, four by ten feet. One door led to the reception-room. Another door took us to the library. I am setting forth these facts from my notes. My first impression was too jumbled to permit such blunt recording. For a figure lay outstretched in one corner, and I still have in my memory a confused picture of diamond buckles and silk stockings, blue velvet and green emeralds, a shock of blond hair and stiff bejewelled fingers. As we came nearer, I noted, shivering, that the floor tiles near her were a bright red.