Smith looked at him. For my part, I was willing to accept the financier’s story. I had realized before that a chain of circumstantial evidence may strangle the innocent, and Breese seemed to have a tenable explanation for every step he took in the case, once you granted him a lack of motive. On the other hand, I realized (and Smith, I could see, was of the same mind) that Breese might be wriggling out of the evidence against him with a disarming frankness foreign to his character. Finally Smith said: “I’m willing to go a long way, Mr. Breese, to give you the benefit of the doubt--provided you promise me that you won’t leave the country until I say you can go.” Something of the financier’s arrogance returned to him. He flushed angrily. “And what if I refuse?” Smith shrugged his shoulders. “Then I’m afraid I must take the necessary steps to detain you.” He spoke quietly, but there was a challenge in his voice. The old man stared at him defiantly. But the tension was broken by the door swinging open suddenly. A young native in the livery of a taxi chauffeur stood panting before us. I recognized him as Breese’s driver. His eyes were wide open with excitement, and his forehead was wet. “Mr. Breese!” he called. “Mr. Breese!” “What is it?” growled the financier. “Come with me, please. Right away!” the driver pleaded. “There’s a man in the cab.” “What man?” demanded Breese. “The man you sent away with me.” “I didn’t send any man away with you,” Breese denied angrily. “What are you talking about?” But the chauffeur was now wringing his hands. “Come please!” he pleaded. “It is terrible.” “What’s come over you?” demanded Breese. “Come--please--see” urged the chauffeur, wringing his hands more violently. “It is terrible!” Then he stopped, realizing our utter bewilderment. He began patiently. “I am sitting outside, waiting for you, Mr. Breese, when a man runs out from back of the store and he says: ‘Mr. Breese want you to drive me quick to Calle L.’ So I says: ‘Get in.’ So we drive.” “I didn’t send anyone to you,” Breese shook his head. “I haven’t met anyone here except Spence.” “Well, the man was Spence,” Smith intervened. “I saw him jump in the cab myself. I came in here and told you.” He turned to the driver. “Go on. What happened?” The chauffeur took a deep breath. “I drive to Calle L. When I stop he says: ‘Go in café and get drink and be back in fifteen minutes.’ I am thirsty, I say: ‘All right.’ I go into café and have drink. After fifteen minutes I come back. I get into seat. I start car. Man sitting there. I drive back. I come here.” He wiped his forehead. “Ten years I work for Biltmore. Never anything happens to me. Never.” “Go on!” urged Smith. “I get here,” the chauffeur swallowed. “I get out. I open the door. The man do not move. I say something. He say nothing. Then I look. It is terrible! Ten years I work for Biltmore and never anything happen.” But Smith was already out of the door. Breese and I followed him hurriedly.