“Yes, yes,” murmured the old man, as if he did not hear what Smith was saying. The Russian’s little eyes gleamed as he watched Breese nervously moving to go. “Yes, I suppose you won’t need me. As a matter of fact, I was thinking of taking the six o’clock boat to Key West tonight. I suppose I’d better get back to the hotel and pack. Yes, I’d better pack. I haven’t much time.” He fumbled with his watch. “But surely you’re not going before the funeral?” the Russian inquired blandly. “I’m afraid I’ll have to,” he coughed nervously. “I wasn’t sure of staying anyway. I’m afraid I’m not up to it.” Then he caught himself up: “Besides, there won’t be a funeral here. Take the body to New York for the family vault. Rice will look after that.” He paused, and licked his lips. “My son-in-law, you say?” He shook his head. “I can’t understand it. I don’t know what Mary’ll say. She’s all in. Can’t talk. I’d better go to the hotel.” He moved for the door. But Smith stopped him. “There’s just one formality you’ll have to go through with,” the detective informed him. “Your wife’s will is going to be read this afternoon at Mr. Brennon’s office. I believe he was her attorney here. And he especially asked me to have all of you there.” Breese fumbled with his stick. “Her will? Oh, yes. But I’ve got to get back to New York.” “It won’t take long,” Smith assured him. “You can still make that boat tonight.” “Very well--very well,” Breese repeated, his hand at the door. “I’ll do that.” Smith watched the old man stumble nervously out of the room. Then he turned to the Russian who now smiled triumphantly at him. “Damned if there isn’t something in it,” Smith muttered. CHAPTER XIV THE WILL OF MRS. BREESE Mr. Charles Brennon, Havana representative of several important New York law firms, maintained his offices in the older quarters of the city. Here the streets were so exceedingly narrow that walking became an adventure and riding a miracle. Decrepit buildings rose in medieval gloom from the congested street and the crumbling rock pile that housed Mr. Brennon was distinguished by being the most decrepit of them all. We found it with some difficulty, for both name and number had been erased by time. But a kindly café proprietor several doors away pointed out the building after we had refreshed ourselves at his bar with cocoanut milk properly iced and sweetened, a soft drink delicacy that was a favorite with Perutkin. As we came through the ancient arch of Mr. Brennon’s building, we were accosted by a whining old man who waved a pad of blue tickets in our faces. He was one of the numerous lottery peddlers who infest the gullible city. Smith waved him aside but the Russian called him back and demanded a sheaf of tickets.