I wondered how the Russian had assembled them all, and for what purpose. I noticed, too, that although the sun was bright outside, the curtains were securely drawn, and the chandelier glowing with light. The room would have been dark without it. From the Russian’s first words, it was obvious that they were waiting for him to proceed with whatever it was he had in mind. He said: “Now we are complete. Mr. Breese is here. Mr. Smith is here.” He turned to the detective, took his arm, and led him to the library. I followed curiously. Standing at the door were the Japanese footman and the English butler. Seated at the table was a bespectacled young American, whom the Russian presented as “Mr. Jenkins of the Ministry.” We shook hands with this stranger, and I wondered what it all meant. But the Russian was reserving his explanation for those in the drawing-room. Standing in the center of the room, he rapped twice with his knuckles upon the table for silence. “Please pay attention!” he called, as if to a group of school children. “You undoubtedly wonder why I summoned you here in the name of the law. I shall tell you. You have come to assist in the administration of justice. I shall ask you all to cooperate with me to the very best of your ability. There are vital issues at stake.” He cleared his throat. “What I am about to ask you to do may be distasteful. It may cause some of you real pain. But I wish you to believe that whatever sacrifice you make will not be in vain. Listen to me, please---- “It is the belief of the police that one and the same person killed the late Mrs. Breese, killed the unfortunate wireless operator, Trenholm, and only this afternoon killed the wretched Charles Spence. Some of you may not know it, but a third, and the last of the murders, was committed less than an hour ago in front of this house!” I heard a buzz of startled conversation. Once more the Russian rapped upon the table. “Listen to me, please. We are not repeating the unfortunate incident of the yacht. This time we have made more extensive preparations. This time we do not seek the murderer. We know him. Now here is what I wish you to do: Listen carefully: In a few moments, in this room, we are going to reconstruct the murder of Mrs. Breese.” He looked at the Countess. “I beg a thousand pardons from the members of her family. I assure them if I could spare them this ordeal, I would. But it is impossible.” He swung around to the rest. “It is now nine o’clock at night, a week ago. I have purposely darkened the room, and put on artificial light, to give verity to our scene. I shall ask all of you to repeat your movements of that night--but exactly!” With the air of an imperious director, he pointed to the Count. “You, my friend, at nine o’clock, were where?” “Outside in the corridor,” replied the Count.