“You see, it was inevitable,” the Russian explained. “Spence was the last. There shall be no more murders. Now there shall be retribution. When Mrs. Breese was killed, it was written that Trenholm should go. And when Trenholm confided in Spence, and Spence very foolishly sought profit from his highly dangerous information, Spence was doomed.” He added casually: “But I have our man.” “Which one is it this time?” Smith sneered. “The right one,” replied the Russian. “You need have no fear. I made one mistake in this case, I concede it. I overlooked one slight detail. It entirely escaped me. And that one slight detail sent me off on the wrong track. I became confused. My work was execrable. I can only apologize. But I have made up for it. I have corrected my error. And I have the man you want.” “Is this another one of your experiments?” demanded Smith. “No,” said the Russian. “I have disappointed you before, Mr. Smith. I have disappointed myself. Even now I kick myself violently for my stupidity.” “Well,” said Smith practically, “who is it and where is he?” “Will you give me half an hour--thirty minutes?” asked the Russian. “I knew there was a catch in it,” sighed Smith. “I could turn the man over to you at this moment,” the Russian said, “but it would not be advisable.” Smith shook his head. “I’ve wasted enough time with you,” he said. “If you have anything, come out with it.” “Very well,” said the Russian. “You refuse me? Then find the man yourself. I have no self-interest. I am merely helping you. Is a half-hour so precious to you that you cannot gamble it against a certainty? I assume you want the man. I shall get him for you, in exactly thirty minutes. He is not far from you now.” Smith is by nature a trader. He overlooks no bargains. After a moment’s hesitation, he said finally: “All right! I’ll give you half an hour. If you don’t produce, better keep out of my way!” “Excellent!” exclaimed the Russian. “Come with me!” CHAPTER XXIV MODUS OPERANDI When we entered the drawing-room of the Gilded Cage, we found assembled there all our fellow-passengers of the yacht. At first sight, they might have been guests at some informal reception. The Count and Countess were seated close together, chatting amiably enough as we approached. I judged from their expressions that despite the tragedy hovering over them, or because of it, the Count had gone far in his effort at reconciliation in the last few days. Rice and the younger Breese were standing near the window, conversing in low tones. The actor, as usual, sulked in a corner by himself, smoking a cigarette with the aid of an extraordinarily long amber holder. Smith had warned Breese outside to mention nothing of the fate that had overtaken Spence. The old man was obviously restrained in greeting his children and Rice. To Thomas he paid no attention whatsoever.