“Strange the vagaries of the human mind!” the Russian suddenly intervened. “Here we are facing death and yet, Mr. Breese, you are as cautious and as canny as if you had something to gain.” “Let me alone!” cried Breese. “As God is your witness,” persisted the Russian, “do you deny that you killed Mrs. Breese?” “Will you let me alone?” shouted the old man. “God forgive you,” murmured the Russian. Smith turned to the actor. “How about you, Thomas? The Count says you discovered the body. Is that true? You never told us that!” “It’s true,” the actor’s voice trembled. “I was afraid to tell you.” “Well, it doesn’t matter,” said Smith wearily. “Nothing I can do about it.” “I don’t want to keep anything back,” cried Thomas. “I’ve gone through hell. I--I lied to you about other things.” “Don’t bother,” advised Smith. “Let it ride.” “The--the night she was killed,” the actor disregarded him, “I didn’t tell you--I couldn’t--but we quarrelled that night. About--about my wanting to go back. She didn’t want me to marry anyone else.” “That’s all right,” said Smith. “I suppose now that you’ve gotten that off your mind you’ll tell me you short-changed her when she took you out to restaurants.” “No, I didn’t,” cried the actor. “She always paid herself.” “Quite,” said Smith. “Now just to make this a really pleasant party, tell us about the time you played with Mrs. Fiske.” “I--I never played with Mrs. Fiske,” protested the actor. “I feel sick. I feel I’m going to faint.” “Not on me,” barked Smith, moving away. “Sit down.” The actor closed his eyes and sank into a chair. Through the windows a thin jagged line of lightning came to blind us for an instant, and reveal a terrifyingly mountainous sea. Smith shivered audibly. “I don’t know why I’m doing this,” he said. “I guess it’s habit. I’d like to know one thing from all you--I’d like to know who killed Mrs. Breese. Just my curiosity. There’s nothing I can do about it. But I’d like to wind up this case. It’s the last one I’ll ever handle.” “Why do you assume,” demanded Rice angrily, “that any one of us knows who did it?” “Because,” said Smith, “the man who killed Mrs. Breese is sitting right in this room now, looking at me, hoping, waiting, praying, he can keep his secret.” “How do you know he is here?” persisted Rice. “Would he come to the funeral of his victim with us? I think the strain is telling on you, sir.” “I know he’s here,” replied Smith. “I know it!” The Russian had risen from his knees. “Mr. Breese!” he cried. “Why don’t you tell the truth? Your children are with you. Tell them the truth--if you dare!” “I’ve told the truth,” muttered Breese. “You were in that house the night of the murder!” thundered the Russian. “And supposing I was?” flared Breese. “Ah!” said the Russian. “You admit you were there!” “I admit nothing,” said Breese. “I’m sick of being badgered. I won’t stand for it! Do you hear me? Let me alone!” The Russian shrugged his shoulders eloquently. He swung on Rice.