“I have a feeling,” exclaimed Perutkin, “that a great vein of luck has seized me. There is light upon this case, and light in my soul.” He pocketed the blue lottery paper. “I shall be both famous and rich. Then I shall be truly miserable!” he sighed mournfully. Even Smith could not help laughing at the vagaries of the man. The three of us stepped gingerly into a musty elevator cage and hoped for the best. Slowly the old man in charge tugged us up the narrow shaft. On the third floor we were deposited directly in front of Mr. Brennon’s dim suite of offices. As we entered the ante-room the smell of antiquity overpowered us. From the rug that had long since lost all semblance of its rightful color and the mottled melancholy walls to the white-whiskered office boy at his dust-laden desk, the room seemed to have been transported out of a bygone age. To judge from the dimly seen pictures on the wall, the world had stopped with the Spanish-American war. Mr. Brennon, as I discovered later, was one of those Americans who had come to Cuba to fight and had been conquered by the dolorous quality of the country. So there were photographs and woodcuts of the patriots of independence, scenes of the sinking of the Maine, a wash drawing of Roosevelt at San Juan and a brown faded memento of Mr. Brennon’s own company, grouped fiercely around their commander. Smith had insisted that we come earlier than the rest because he wanted the opportunity of an uninterrupted interview with the lawyer. While the white-whiskered office boy went forth to announce us to Mr. Brennon, I reminded the detective that the elder Breese had been the first to mention the subject of a will when he summoned us to his suite to warn us against the actor. “I haven’t forgotten,” said Smith. “What would you think,” intervened the Russian, “if, when we hear the will read, we discover that Mr. Thomas inherits the entire estate?” “I’d say it would look bad for Thomas,” Smith replied. “And if Mr. Breese proves a false prophet? If Mr. Thomas receives nothing?” “Then,” said Smith, “we’ll be more at sea than ever.” “No,” said the Russian. “You will have convincing proof that Mr. Breese deliberately lied to implicate the actor, which is what I have maintained all along.” But here the white-whiskered office boy returned with Mr. Brennon. Although it was almost unbearably hot, the old lawyer affected a high-wing collar and a rather shiny but undeniably substantial morning coat. He was well over seventy, with silver mustachios and his faded blue eyes smiled feebly at us. He met us with a quavering flow of welcome--he hailed from somewhere in Tennessee--and he seemed to take it as his own short-sightedness that we had come a half-hour too soon. Certainly the old man and his establishment were not easily reconciled with Mrs. Breese, who had been as modern as this morning’s newspaper put out upon the streets the night before.