It was not difficult to patch together from their incoherent appeals to each other the story of the strange relationship. Someone in the household--Mrs. Breese, undoubtedly--had been determined that the Russian be kept from his former wife. I remembered how he had told me, the night Perutkin had brought me to him, that he had exhausted every possible means of communicating with Mary Breese. It was clear to me now that Mary Breese had not willingly parted from her husband. But my reflections were disturbed suddenly. I had paid but desultory attention to their mutual efforts to comfort each other. Then I heard the Russian say: “Mary, I don’t know how to tell you this--you’ve had enough to bear--but I must tell you. I must! Listen to me!” Silence. Smith leaned forward. “I came here tonight to see you. I knew that if I could talk to you, hold you--but I mustn’t talk about that. I got in through the garden window, in the back. I dodged all the servants until I got in here. Mary, your mother saw me!” Silence again. Then the girl’s dazed voice: “Mother--saw you?” “Yes--she--Mary, I must have been crazy. Mary, I don’t know what happened. I must have been crazy! Mary, I--I killed her!” I heard the girl’s piercing scream! Then, as Smith leaped forward, the door slammed in our faces. A key turned. The lock clicked. Smith hammered on the door, hurling himself at it. We heard voices, running feet. The next moment a stupefied servant opened the door. Smith and I ran out. We saw the girl crumpled in a heap on the stairs. She had fainted. Hurriedly, Smith gave orders to carry her upstairs. We ran out upon the terrace. We heard nothing but the soft rustling of leaves. We hurried down into the street. But the Count had disappeared. CHAPTER XI THE PSYCHOLOGICAL ALIBI It was the next morning that Boris Sergeivitch Perutkin actively intervened in the Murder in the Gilded Cage, as I called it. Smith sent for him. I still remember how the giant stamped into Smith’s cubby-hole of an office, his big face radiating geniality, his little eyes twinkling with malicious humor. “At last!” he greeted Smith. “At last, you have the common sense to summon me!” “I didn’t call you in as a detective,” said Smith, “I’ve sent for you as a friend of this Count.” “So!” the Russian grinned. “I am disappointed.” “Where is he?” barked Smith. “My good friend,” replied the detective, “I haven’t any idea where he is.” He seated himself in the hard wicker chair Smith kept for guests, lit a cigar, and puffed lazily. “I saw him for perhaps five minutes after he left you last night, and since then he has been swallowed by the world.” Smith went to the window and opened it. A refreshing morning breeze floated in, bearing upon its wings the cries of the Chinese street vendors below.