“You shouldn’t have done that,” his father cried. “I--I can’t believe it.” “Oh!” said the actor. “It’s coming out now, is it? I knew there was a conspiracy against me!” “There’s no conspiracy against you,” retorted the boy contemptuously. “You killed Mother, and I know it. I know it just as sure as I’m standing here.” “No use of that, son,” Smith calmed him. “We’re all in for it together, and it won’t do much good now to go into that.” “God forgive us, poor miserable sinners!” murmured the Russian. “You wrong that man,” the Count came forward. “He did not kill your mother.” “Of course not,” said Smith. “You did. You confessed.” “That confession was a lie,” replied the Count calmly. “Then why did you make it?” “I had my reasons,” he addressed himself to the girl. “I may never have another chance to talk to you, Mary, and I want you to know that in all my life I have never done anything that would make you ashamed of me. Certainly, I could not do so fiendish a thing, so horrible a thing!” “Then who did kill Mrs. Breese?” demanded Smith. “Not that I care particularly,” he amended hastily. “I’m just curious.” “One of us here,” replied the Count quietly, “killed Mrs. Breese.” “Name him!” challenged Smith. “It is not for me to name him,” said the Count. “I leave that to his conscience. But I shall tell you what I know. I went to Mrs. Breese’s house that night to see you, Mary. Your mother had given strict orders that I was not to be admitted. I made my way in unobserved through the servants’ quarters. Then I stole out into the corridor, in the front of the house. “I saw the front door open and someone come in. That someone opened the door with a key. He went into the drawing-room. I heard voices. Then I saw someone run out, racing into the street. I was puzzled. “Then Mr. Thomas came down the stairs and went to the drawing-room. He came out quickly and hurried upstairs. Then a moment later the butler came and I heard him cry out that Mrs. Breese had been murdered!” “The man who preceded Thomas into the drawing-room was the murderer?” said Smith. “Undoubtedly,” replied the Count. Smith looked about the waiting circle. His eyes rested upon the financier. “Well, Mr. Breese,” he said, smiling grimly, “aren’t you ready to tell us yet? After all, what have you got to lose? I can’t do a thing to you.” “I?” Breese stammered. “Yes,” said Smith. “You’re the man the Count saw walk into that drawing-room. You’re the man he’s been protecting with his confession.” “You don’t think that I killed my wife?” bellowed Breese. “You’d better be careful, young man!” “What were you doing in your wife’s house the night of the murder?” Smith demanded. “I wasn’t there,” said Breese. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Then the Count is lying when he says he saw you there?” “I told you I wasn’t there,” snapped the old man. “You knew your wife was murdered when you talked to me at your hotel,” Smith persisted. “I did not!”