Several moments later the bulk of the Russian loomed over me. “Put away that paper,” he whispered. “I shall give you something more appetizing than an editor’s fancies. Rise from your chair and nonchalantly as you can follow me to the elevator.” “Why? What?” I demanded. “Ask nothing. And do not look so surprised. We are going upstairs.” As he said this, he preceded me into the elevator cage. “Seventh,” he barked at the boy. And then to me: “Well, are you enjoying yourself? A most interesting city, is it not? Or do you confine your wanderings to Sloppy Joe’s, like all Americans?” I mumbled something. But by this time we had alighted. He strode forward confidently. Then I realized that we were approaching the suite of Henry Breese. “We’re not going to see the old man?” I demanded. “Quiet!” whispered the Russian, as a bell boy whisked past us. “We are not going to see anyone.” He stopped in front of Breese’s door. He reached into his pocket and extracted a miniature jimmy. This he inserted in the lock and the door opened almost instantly. He dragged me into the room--I could not move--and then closed the door behind him. “We are doing a little burglary,” he explained casually. “I needed a companion in crime and I chose you. Are you not flattered?” “But what are you going to do--and why?” I insisted. “It’s simple enough,” he said carelessly. “I’m going to search Mr. Breese’s room very thoroughly. That is all. If you are afraid we shall be interrupted, let me inform you that Mr. Breese will be occupied for several hours. I have ascertained that. The chambermaid has already made the beds and issued the towels. We are quite safe. You see, I am a good burglar. I know what I’m at. Any detective worthy of the name who cannot be a better burglar than the regular members of the profession really has no reason for existence.” “But do you think,” I demanded, “that Breese would leave anything in his room calculated to arouse our suspicions?” “Why not?” demanded the Russian, proceeding to the secretary, and opening a drawer. While he was examining papers he said: “You must understand this about crimes and criminals: At a certain stage every criminal is exact, methodical and cunning. Then he becomes desperate and may do something brilliant--such as the killing of Trenholm with Smith’s own pistol. Our friend Smith has not yet recovered from his chagrin at that. In fact, it hurts more now than ever. But as the pace becomes more furious for the criminal he becomes careless. He must relax. He must overlook something.” He put back carefully letters, telegrams. “And we may find something. I do not guarantee it. But I am hoping.” I called out suddenly, for I heard soft footfalls approaching outside. The Russian paused, listening. Then the door next to ours opened and I breathed more easily.