“A highly interesting man, Breese,” the Russian lectured on our way down. “If my theories are right--and I have no reason to doubt them--he will probably go down in history as one of the world’s most interesting criminals. And why not? When a respectable and cultivated man goes in for crime he makes the efforts of the professionals look childish in comparison. Most criminals are merely mental deficients. “What I admire in him is his attitude toward us. Most criminals would be bland, friendly. They would be very careful not to antagonize the police. With what result? The clever detective sees through them. Not so with Breese. He takes pains to antagonize us. Why? Because, he reasons, we will assume he has nothing to fear. He is merely standing on his rights.” “But is his attitude so unnatural?” I asked. “After all, he’s an arrogant man.” “He was not arrogant when he warned Smith of his wife’s danger an hour after she was murdered. He was polite enough when he tried to explain away his possession of a key to the Gilded Cage. There are moments when he shows fear. But he is a man of considerable strength of mind. After all, he reasons he can leave for the States at any moment now. Then he is safe. The case will be forgotten. He is not in a bad position, Mr. Breese. In fact, he is in a very good position. I do not boast, but his sole misfortune is that I happen to be interested in the case. Other criminals have discovered that before him!” He leaned back contentedly and let the sun warm his ruddy face. We were passing through Havana’s slum section. Colored urchins as naked as the day they were born rolled in the sand. Black women were grouped in front of flimsy shacks in the community kitchen, for the primitive cooking on charcoal fires was done in the open. Every so often a butcher’s cart full of live chickens, guinea hens and peacocks rolled by under the guidance of a somnolent coolie. About a block from our destination, we dismissed the cab and walked past a series of open stores and shabby brick homes. We spied a small sign: “Charles Spence--Bicycles--Repairs.” In front of the shop, a taxi waited. I recognized it as the one Breese had engaged. The Russian stopped a few feet away from the store. “We shall wait here,” he said. “Well, I’ll wait for you!” The Russian swung around. I started. Smith was at my elbow. “Where did you come from?” the Russian chuckled. “But you are bright this morning, Mr. Smith!” “I was just about going to ask you the same question,” Smith smiled jovially. He seemed unusually buoyant. There was an air of triumph about him. The Russian explained how we found the note. Smith grinned. “You went to a lot of unnecessary trouble,” he said somewhat patronizingly to the Russian. “It so happens that this morning I got a letter from Mr. Spence asking me to call.” “And then you saw Mr. Breese walk in?” concluded the Russian.