Then the lawyer was done. No one spoke. I realized the Countess had risen, and her brother. They left the room without a word. The elder Breese whispered something to Rice, who nodded, and then joined his children. “When,” the actor cleared his throat and addressed the lawyer with grave dignity, “when do you plan to file this will in the Surrogate’s court?” “Immediately,” replied the lawyer. “No hurry, is there?” demanded Smith sharply. But the actor did not deign to reply. He took up his gloves and stick and stalked out of the room. We emerged into the dingy corridor once more. Neither Smith nor the Russian made any comment upon the ceremony that had just been concluded. Once out of the building, we clambered aboard a lumbering street car. A native motorman who smoked loathsomely heavy cigarettes sent our car clanging through the narrow street. Heavily rouged and bejewelled matrons sat side by side, with grimy day laborers about us preempting the shady side. Every so often a bullet-headed negro boy would run through the car crying the virtues of his bags of hot peanuts. Our route took us past several cemeteries and the motorman would lift his cap to a passing cortège, flick his cigarette and then clang forward more noisily than ever. “You see,” shouted the Russian in my ear above the clamor of the car, “other mortals may be dismissed as easily as all this, with the lifting of the cap, but Mrs. Breese wanted more out of death! What a fool! But I look forward to her funeral! I shall enjoy it!” He laughed heartily. “I have always enjoyed funerals. They are such a commentary on the unimportance of life!” Smith looked at him nastily, for the Russian was shocking his staid sensibilities. All unconscious of this, Perutkin continued for all to hear: “For my own funeral, I require nothing but a hole in the ground, and flowers. Many flowers. I wish to smell sweet in death. Not that that is possible. Quite the contrary. But at least civilized man can give superficial beauty even to decay. And he should do so. I am all in favor of civilization. The more the better.” The rest of his somewhat disconnected philosophy on funerals was lost in the business of leaping out of the street car, for the motorman never waited the convenience of his passengers, and we almost rode past the ornamental police headquarters. We accompanied Smith to his office. While we waited patiently, he sat down at his desk and began typing strenuously. When he was done, he said: “I’ve often found it useful, when a case gets to this stage of the game, to write down the known facts and see how they jibe. Now you two know this case as well as I do. I want you to look this over and see what I’ve missed.” The Russian and I glanced over his shoulder, and we read: