“I was right!” He pointed to the street, and I moved to the window to see. “Mr. Breese is about to pay us a visit. Here, quick, get hold of the policemen in the reception-room and tell them on no account to open the door!” “But why?” “Don’t question. Do as I say.” Wonderingly, I obeyed. Before I could return to the drawing-room, a bell pealed. The policeman made no move. Again the bell, and again. The Russian strode out into the hall. I followed. Five minutes passed, the bell resounded now through the house. Still we made no move. Finally I heard the click of a key in the lock. The door opened. Mr. Breese looked up at us. “That,” said the Russian, his little eyes gleaming, “is how Mr. Breese came in.” “Who is this man?” Breese demanded of me. Before I could reply, the Russian continued: “Absurdly simple, isn’t it? I forgot, Mr. Breese, that you built this house. Naturally you would have a key!” “What in the world are you talking about?” Breese snapped. “Who is this man?” I explained the Russian away as an associate of Smith’s. “Surely, you must remember me,” said the Russian. “Don’t you remember in Riga--I was then with the Russian police. We had an interesting talk then. We’ll have another interesting talk now. Won’t you step in here, Mr. Breese?” “I don’t know you and I don’t remember you,” Breese barked. “I’ve come here to see my children. I haven’t come to see you. If you’re a detective, let me see your credentials.” “I haven’t any,” the Russian replied, “but Mr. Smith will vouch for me.” “I don’t care who vouches for you. You might have some consideration for a man in my position. Please get out of my way. I’m going upstairs.” “Very well, sir,” the Russian bowed. Without a word, Breese laboriously began climbing the wide stone steps. When he was out of sight, the Russian grinned good-naturedly: “The suspect refuses to talk!” CHAPTER XIII MR. BREESE IS ANXIOUS When Ben Smith arrived an hour later he found us smoking placidly in the drawing-room. The Russian was at ease in one of the huge chairs, his big head bowed to his barrel chest, his sharp little eyes now half closed. The afternoon sun was blazing hot, and even the heavy brocaded curtains could not smother its discomfort. There had been a half-somnolent silence between us for some time now. “Working hard?” Smith greeted us grinning, very cool and dapper in his immaculate linen suit. Smith was obviously amused at the slothful ease of the Russian at the scene of the crime. “Eh?” The Russian lifted his head and blinked. I could see now that if it were not for Smith’s interruption he would have fallen asleep. He smiled confidingly. “I was just preparing myself for a little siesta.” He shook his head vigorously as if to wake himself. “It is so confoundedly hot in this country,” he sighed. “And, besides, I think my work is done.”