“There is only one thing,” the Russian said. “I have not devised a means of exit if we are surprised. I do not expect to be surprised. But if the worst comes to the worst, Mr. Smith can always rescue us from the law. A trifle! In my own country I have consistently broken all laws.” He was now at the wardrobe closet, expertly fumbling into the pockets of Mr. Breese’s carefully tailored suits. “But the man is rich!” he exclaimed. “Such textiles! Such cloth! I have always bought the best when I could afford it, and I flatter myself my taste in clothes is superior to any man’s. Unfortunately, at the moment I cannot indulge it. I always had my clothes made in England when I was in my glory,” he sighed. “However--what have we here?” He held up a piece of brown wrapping paper. I thought it strange that Breese should carry such an obviously dirty piece of paper on his person. “Look!” cried the Russian. Peering over his shoulder, I saw that these words had been scrawled upon the paper: “Dear Mr. Breese,” I read. “Please come and see me right away as I have important info. and it will pay you. Don’t fail to come as this is _important_. I will be waiting for you tonight at 7 in my shop 32 Calle C and 3rd Street. Charles Spence.” “Charles Spence!” exclaimed the Russian. “I wonder if it can be the Charlie who advised Trenholm on just such paper and in just such writing to get money!” “It must be,” I exclaimed. “Smith has that letter,” the Russian continued. “If we could compare, we could make sure. But obviously it must be the same man. And we have his address--Calle C and 3rd Street.” He put the paper carefully back into the pocket he had just rifled. “We shall proceed there immediately. Come!” When the Russian moved, he moved quickly. I found myself panting after him as he strode down the corridor. We waited for the elevator. Just as we were about to get in, the elder Breese emerged. He frowned on us, and did not even nod. For his part, the Russian ignored him and stepped into the elevator cage. Down in the lobby, he said: “Unless I miss my guess, Mr. Breese has forgotten that note. He is wearing a suit not unlike the one I examined. He probably was on his way to see our Charlie and then discovered he had forgotten the address. We shall wait.” We waited in easy chairs screened by pillars so the elder Breese did not see us when he emerged once more and hurried out. The Russian beckoned to me and we followed slowly. When we reached the street, Breese was already in a cab. The Russian permitted him to disappear around a corner before he summoned a cab for us and directed our driver to take us to Calle C and 3rd.