“Facts!” growled Smith. “I wish I knew what they were!” He outlined what he had gathered thus far, beginning with our interview with the elder Breese where we had first learned of the murder. Boris Sergeivitch Perutkin listened intently, grunting at each significant piece of evidence, gesturing impatiently at routine detail. “The big things I want to know,” he would interrupt. “Never mind the measurements of the floor. I am not a scientific detective. I live in reality. Proceed, please.” “Here’s the thing in a nutshell,” concluded Smith. “Until your friend butted in, I had a reasonably clear case against the actor. He’s a bad egg. He had a girl back in New York. He needed money. There’s that forged check. There’s Rice’s testimony. It all fits in. And yet along comes your friend with a confession and--there we are! Now what do you make of it?” “At present, nothing,” said the Russian. “First, I must see the house. Will you accompany me?” “Oh, I’ve been all over the place,” said Smith. “There’s nothing there.” “Perhaps not,” replied the Russian. “But I must insist upon seeing that room. It is all-important.” Smith turned to me. “All right, why don’t you go with him? I’ve got a report to fill out now. I’ll telephone ahead for them to let you in. I may meet you there later.” “Good,” exclaimed the Russian, smiling at me. “I like an audience when I work. So will you come, please?” Smith stopped us at the door. “By the way,” he said to the Russian, “I’ve got the medical examiner’s report here, if you care to see it. I’ve just had it translated into English!” He handed a sheaf of papers to the Russian, who scanned them hastily and thrust them into his pocket. “I shall examine them later. Probably they contain nothing more than you’ve already told me.” “Not much more,” said Smith, turning back to his work. “And if you see anything in the house I’ve overlooked, I’ll eat it. If you take my advice, never mind the house, and get hold of your friend, the Count. That’s more important.” “We shall see,” said the Russian. And to me: “Come, my friend.” Down in the street we were fortunate enough to find a brand-new taxi and with incredible speed we raced through the choked streets of the business quarter, narrowly dodging other cars and at least four trams. We stopped at a kiosk for the morning papers. The Gilded Cage was the story of the day. Although there were but scanty available facts, these were embellished with considerable gossip, and smeared over the front pages of both Cuban and English papers. Apparently the murder had aroused considerable interest at home, too, for cables from New York recounted the shock of Mrs. Breese’s friends at the news. Considerable space was given to a rehash of the divorce trial.