“Please understand,” the Count continued, “whatever I have to say I shall say to Miss Breese. To no one else.” “All right,” said Smith, gesturing to the butler. “Get Miss Breese down here.” The butler hurried off. The Count looked about him. He stared at the body. “I don’t want Miss Breese to come into this room. It would not be advisable,” he said. “And in any case, I wish to talk to her alone. I want you two gentlemen to wait here, at this door. You will hold it slightly open, so that you may listen to what I have to say. I don’t want Miss Breese to know we’re being watched. I want her to feel that we are quite alone, especially as it may be the last time.” He paused, and smiled bitterly. Then he waved a white hand apologetically. “You perhaps do not understand me. _C’est bien._ The only thing to remember for you gentlemen is: you will stay, please, right here.” “You’re much too insistent about that,” said Smith suspiciously. “Wait a minute! You were caught hiding in this house. How do I know you aren’t trying to get away--shoving us behind this door?” “How can I get away?” demanded the Count quietly. “You will be right here. You can have a revolver pointed at me, if you wish.” His gentleness left him and he was sharp and incisive. He was now giving commands. “Understand--you will either follow my suggestion or I shall say nothing.” Before Smith could reply, we heard footsteps, and the Count opened the door. He strode out into the reception-room, carefully closing the door behind him so that we were left barely a crack through which to peep. Smith just as carefully widened the crack, and we caught a glimpse of Mary Breese descending the stairs. She was deathly pale, and her eyes were lost in mourning shadows. There was not enough room for the two of us, so Smith monopolized the sight. I strained to listen to the scene I could not see. But I noticed that Smith was following the Russian’s suggestions to the letter. His right hand was at his revolver holster. I heard the Count cry: “Mary!” A pause. Then I heard her move toward him, crying incoherently: “Isn’t it awful! I need you so!” I heard him trying to comfort her gently. She was sobbing unrestrainedly now. “Please, Mary ... please ... you mustn’t.” The Count’s voice broke now. I heard her say: “It would never have happened if I hadn’t let you go--I needed you so! But what could I do?” “No,” he said slowly, “it would never have happened.” “You mustn’t leave me now!” she cried. “You mustn’t ever leave me!” Silence. Then, as if the words were wrung from him: “Why didn’t you--why didn’t you try to see me as I begged you? You got my letters, didn’t you?” “No, I didn’t get any letters. What letters? I didn’t even know you were in town! I don’t know that you’re here now! I--oh, I don’t know anything any more!” “Please--don’t cry. Didn’t I tell you I phoned. I wrote. I tried every way to see you.” “No!” Then as if in agonized appeal: “Don’t leave me--please don’t leave me!”