Mr. Spence’s window contained one highly polished wire-wheeled bicycle, a collection of patched tires and an incongruous monkey wrench. The window had not been washed in many years. It is something of an eccentricity to have a shop window in Havana. The natives use shutters. As we entered the dark store I was surprised to find no one in sight. The Russian knocked loudly upon a small work-table. Still no one answered. “As I feared,” he muttered. “Mr. Smith should be spanked.” “There must be someone here,” I ventured. “Breese’s cab is still outside.” “We shall try the door,” the Russian decided, pointing to the little door leading obviously to another work shop. He thrust this open. The elder Breese, who had been sitting at a table, sprang up. “Greetings, Mr. Breese,” boomed the Russian. The old man said nothing. “We should like to see your friend, Charlie Spence.” Still the old man did not answer. “Surely you will be good enough to tell us where we can find him, no?” “I’m waiting for him myself,” the old man said finally, glaring at the Russian. “Then we shall wait, too,” said the Russian. He seated himself directly opposite the financier, and leaned over toward him. “That is what I admire in you Americans--your great democracy. Who would think that so important a man as you would have so humble a friend as Spence? It is remarkable!” Breese grunted. “Did you say something, Mr. Breese?” demanded the Russian. “No, I didn’t,” snapped Breese. The Russian bowed with mock courtesy. “I don’t expect you to talk to me. But it’s really no use, Mr. Breese. No use at all. This man Spence wants your money--and yet what good will it do you? We have the evidence. Believe me, Mr. Breese, he is merely making a fool of you.” “What in the world are you talking about?” sputtered the financier. “Surely my meaning is quite plain,” retorted the Russian. “You received a letter from Mr. Spence this morning. Mr. Spence is--or rather, was--a friend of our wireless operator who was killed so mysteriously. Mr. Spence has the same information that caused that poor fellow’s death. Only Mr. Spence does not intend to suffer the same fate. He intends to enrich himself and at your expense. Well, Mr. Breese, are you ready to talk now?” “About what?” snapped Breese. “I got a letter the other day from this man and a very strange telephone call. He said he had some information on my wife’s death. I came here this morning. I met him. He asked me to wait. He said he had business a few doors away. I’ve been waiting for him ever since.” “Almost plausible!” said the Russian. “Damn it, do you think I’m lying to you?” shouted Breese. “I know you are,” replied the Russian coolly. “Be good enough to tell us where Mr. Spence is. What have you done with him?” “What have I done with him? Man, are you mad?” Breese sputtered feebly. “I’ve got a good mind to report you to your superiors.”