“And see how it all fits in,” the Russian continued. “Why does Rice accuse the actor? Because Mr. Breese has talked to him. He has given Rice the telegrams from the detective agency. He has poisoned Rice’s mind with suspicion, just as he planned to poison Smith’s mind when he summoned him for an engagement three-quarters of an hour after the murder. “And see how the confession of my friend, the Count, fits into this! Suppose he had seen Mr. Breese murder his wife. Wouldn’t it be like my friend to try and save Mary Breese from the double tragedy? Her mother dead, her father a murderer? Now put yourself in the Count’s place. Knowing what he knows, what is he to do? Loving Mary Breese as he loves her, what is he to do? “It would be a problem for any man. My friend, the Count, hides in one of the rooms upstairs. He telephones me, and asks for advice. I tell him. He lets himself be discovered. He is dragged before Smith. He knows the real murderer. At first his impulse was to take the blame upon himself together with the consequences. But my friend is no story-book hero. He has no desire to spend the rest of his life in a Cuban prison. So, following my suggestion, he arranges for you to overhear his confession, and then he disappears. Mr. Breese is protected. Mary Breese is saved from a horrible truth. Now, my friend, is it not probable? Is it not reasonable?” “Well,” I hesitated, “it sounds reasonable enough. But there’s one thing you forget.” “And that is?” “No one knows Mr. Breese was here. No one saw him here. The servants testify there were no visitors. How did Mr. Breese get in?” “That,” said the Russian, “is not as difficult as it sounds. How did my friend, the Count, get in? But I’ll concede you have touched, without knowing it, a very vital problem here, something I hope to solve before the day is over. At least, if Mr. Breese does what I think he will.” He strode over to the garden window, and drew the curtains aside, so that a bright sun streamed through the room. He looked out upon the brilliant foliage of the garden. “To think,” he mused, “that a house built for beauty and grandeur should house meanness and murder! But that is the way of human beings. It was like this several years ago--when the Baron was murdered. Outwardly all peace and contentment and inwardly a ghastly tragedy.” He turned from the window. “Do you remember, I said, when I heard that Mr. Breese had arrived in this city: ‘The circle is complete’? My friend, I am firmly convinced that the man who killed the Baron is responsible for the death of Mrs. Breese!” “But where? How? I fail to see the connection!” “It is there, nevertheless. I don’t know. I feel it. The same people were there in Riga--Mr. Breese, Mr. Rice, Mr. Thomas, my friend the Count, the Countess, the boy--they were all there. Isn’t it curious to you? Isn’t it significant?” He paused abruptly.