“There are many definite, tangible things here,” he replied, “but they are of little value--at present. I notice you have marked down the Breese children. I admit they should be watched, as a matter of routine. But I would safely pass them for the moment. Our main target right now is the father. Concentrate upon him, my friend!” “You’re at it again!” said Smith. “Besides,” I put in, “old man Breese is leaving for the States on the six o’clock boat, isn’t he?” Smith shook his head. “No, Mr. Breese’s landing card is going to be questioned when he gets to Key West and he’ll have to return to Havana to straighten it out. I’ve got that arranged. I’m not taking any chances of losing anybody in this case.” “Good!” approved the Russian heartily. He planted his panama firmly upon his huge head. “If I recall rightly, the funeral is to take place three days after the lady’s death--tomorrow at midnight, to be exact.” Smith nodded. “What is the weather prediction for tomorrow?” “The weather prediction?” Smith repeated puzzled. “Yes,” said the Russian. “Examine that copy of the Havana Post which you keep so neatly folded upon the desk. What does it say?” Smith glanced obediently at the paper, evidently humoring the Russian. “Let me see----” he found the weather column. “Storms,” he read. “But that is magnificent!” shouted the Russian. He snatched the paper rudely from the detective. “Let me see. I cannot believe it. Yes, it is true! Storms!” Smith stared at him, open-mouthed. The Russian swept his hat from his head in one violent gesture and flung it upon the desk. “To work!” he cried. “To work, my friends.” Then he chuckled. “Of course, you do not understand? You do not see the connection. I am, perhaps, premature. What if there should be no storms? No, I shall wait.” He regained the panama and once more it was squeezed down upon his head. “Tomorrow we go to the funeral, invited or not. And, my friends”--he was already moving to the door--“pray for storms, my friends, pray for storms!” CHAPTER XVI THE FUNERAL AT MIDNIGHT The funeral party assembled upon the ill-lit dock at eleven o’clock that night. Although the moon was shrouded, there were no signs of the prophesied storm. The black and green waters of the Bay rippled gently, and only the mildest of tropical breezes swept past us. Far off we could see the _Mary Rose_ riding gracefully at anchor, her lights twinkling invitingly to the desolate dock. Occasionally a tug shrieked its warning and plowed off to its berth. Funerals are never pleasant affairs for me, and this one, with all its attendant circumstances, brought an involuntary shiver as I waited impatiently for the yacht’s launches. Faces of the mourners were hardly distinguishable. Vaguely I knew that the group of four nearby, whispering softly among themselves, were the Breese family and Gordon Rice. At some considerable distance the shadow of the actor paced up and down.