When we drew up before the Gilded Cage, we found an assorted crowd of curiosity seekers lined up in front of us. Several of the native newspaper men were sipping bacardi and coca-cola in the corner café across the street. A lone and perspiring photographer was taking pictures from all angles of the house of mystery. A murder sensation was well under way. Smith had notified the native police on guard of our coming, so we were admitted without much delay. I led the Russian at his request into the drawing-room and roughly mapped out for him the position of the body as I had last seen it. We were alone. One of the policemen told us that the family was upstairs, and we left orders that we were not to be disturbed in our examination. As I read off my copious notes of the day before, the Russian seemed only casually interested. When I was done, he said: “It is a fallacy to take so many notes. One does not see the forest for the trees, as you say in your country. But thank you!” Then he brushed me aside and began examining the furniture: “Fine pieces!” he commented. “I have a love for expensive old furniture. But what is this doing here?” He pointed to the black and silver radio. “It is out of harmony. I do not like it.” I could not very well point out to him that we were not there to criticize the color scheme of the drawing-room. He walked about, smoking his big cigar, examining the pictures and then pausing at the bust of Mrs. Breese. “What a woman!” he exclaimed, patting the stone head. “Unhappy woman! Always restless, always scheming, never satisfied.” He shook his head mournfully and then: “She had very poor taste! Very poor! In furniture, in people.” Then he wheeled at me suddenly. “Behold! You think I am wasting time? I am! I am getting my thoughts together. I see something. What is more important, I feel something. I shall talk to you--I shall think aloud, as we say. Behold the problem that confronts me. A woman is murdered. “There were fifteen servants and three members of the household, the actor and two children. We take the actor first. The evidence is overwhelming against him. He is a bad character. He has another woman. He needs money. He has forged a check. He has been found out. It is perfect! Too perfect! No man would commit murder under such circumstances, at least if he were sane, and Mr. Thomas is stupid but sane. “Mr. Rice is the one who accuses Mr. Thomas. Now, where was Mr. Rice last evening? That is important to know.” “Why, you don’t for a moment think,” I said, “that Rice did it? He was Mrs. Breese’s friend. Her adviser.” “When a man accuses another of a murder, his hands must be clean. Spotless. Where was Mr. Rice last night? That is what I ask.”