Then as they propelled their captive toward us, where the full light of the chandelier enveloped him, I could not but gasp. For the young man so unceremoniously brought before us was Perutkin’s melancholy protégé, the Count Giering-Trelovitch. Thomas seemed to recognize him, too, for the actor’s expression changed as if magically. His fear left him and I saw him grin in relief. “There’s the man you want!” he cried. CHAPTER X THE COUNT CONFESSES The Count bowed and said quietly: “Yes, gentlemen, I guess I am the man you want.” He turned to Smith. “You are of the police?” “Yes,” said Smith. “What is it you wish to know?” asked the Count gently. “What does he wish to know?” the actor intervened scornfully. “I’ll tell you. This man was Mrs. Breese’s son-in-law. He murdered a man in Riga. He’s hated Mrs. Breese ever since she made the Countess divorce him. He’s been following her all over the world. She’s complained to me about him a dozen times.” He paused for breath. “And then you have the audacity to annoy _me_! Dash it all, I’ve got a good mind to sue you for damages!” He looked accusingly at the Count. “Come ahead, tell them you did it and be done with it. I’m going back to New York tonight! I can’t waste any more time in this dashed hole.” The Count smiled sadly. “I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you, Mr. Thomas,” he said. “I had no idea I was a source of annoyance to you. Now, if you will leave me alone with this officer, I think we can straighten matters out very quickly.” “I’m going!” cried Thomas. “I’m going. And this time nobody’s going to stop me!” “You stay upstairs,” said Smith, “until I tell you to go!” He turned to the Russian, barking: “Well, where do you come in?” “I’m afraid,” the Russian smiled, “I came in at the wrong time. I have something to tell you, officer.” “Yes? What is it?” “First, I want you to send for Miss Breese, my former wife.” “First tell me how you got here,” countered Smith. “I’m afraid I can’t agree,” the Count shook his head. “Will you be good enough to send for Miss Breese?” “Maybe. First, I want to ask you something.” “Yes?” The man seemed perfectly at ease, strangely enough. “What were you hiding upstairs for?” “I’m not ready to tell you that--yet.” Smith surveyed him coldly. “You know that Mrs. Breese was murdered tonight?” He pointed to the body. “Yes, I know.” “Who told you?” “No one. I have eyes.” The Count indicated the body pityingly. “Do you know who killed Mrs. Breese?” “Yes,” said the Russian. “I do.” His voice trembled slightly. “What’s that?” cried Smith, startled. “I said: ‘Yes, I do know.’” “Who was it?” snapped Smith. “I shall be glad to tell you,” replied the Russian calmly, “after I’ve seen the Countess. But certainly not before. Will you be good enough to send for her? I ask you again.” Smith studied this strange phenomenon before he replied. He looked at me out of the corner of his eye to indicate his bewilderment.