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168 Indeed, she was palpably disinclined to retire, but was carried off by the masterful Madame, who declared that she looked tired.

I wondered now, as I gazed down into the moon-bathed gardens, if Harley and I were the only wakeful members of the household at that hour. I should have been prepared to wager that there were others. I thought of the strange footsteps which so often passed Miss Beverley’s room, and I discovered this thought to be an uncomfortable one.

Normally, I was sceptical enough, but on this night of the full moon as I stood there at the window, the horrors which Colonel Menendez had related to us grew very real in my eyes, and I thought that the mysteries of Voodoo might conceal strange and ghastly truths. “The scientific employment of darkness against light.” Colin Camber’s words leapt unbidden to my mind; and, such is the magic of moonlight, they became invested with a new and a deeper significance. Strange, that theories which one rejects whilst the sun is shining should assume a spectral shape in the light of the moon.

Such were my musings, when suddenly I heard a faint sound as of footsteps crunching upon gravel. I leaned farther out of the window, listening intently. I could not believe that Harley would be guilty of such an indiscretion as this, yet who else could be walking upon the path below?

As I watched, craning from the window, a tall figure appeared, and, slowly crossing the gravel path, descended the moss-grown steps to the Tudor garden.

It was Colonel Menendez!

He was bare-headed, but fully dressed as I had seen him in the smoking-room; and not yet grasping the

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Rh portent of his appearance at that hour, but merely wondering why he had not yet retired, I continued to watch him. As I did so, something in his gait, something unnatural in his movements, caught hold of my mind with a sudden great conviction. He had reached the path which led to the sun-dial, and with short, queer, ataxic steps was proceeding in its direction, a striking figure in the brilliant moonlight which touched his gray hair with a silvery sheen.

His unnatural, automatic movements told their own story. He was walking in his sleep! Could it be in obedience to the call of M’kombo?

My throat grew dry and I knew not how to act. Unwillingly it seemed, with ever-halting steps, the figure moved onward. I could see that his fists were tightly clenched and that he held his head rigidly upright. All horrors, real and imaginary, which I had ever experienced, culminated in the moment when I saw this man of inflexible character, I could have sworn of indomitable will, moving like a puppet under the influence of some unnameable force.

He was almost come to the sun-dial when I determined to cry out. Then, remembering the shock experienced by a suddenly awakened somnambulist, and remembering that the Chinese ladder hung from the window at my feet, I changed my mind. Checking the cry upon my lips, I got astride of the window ledge, and began to grope for the bamboo rungs beneath me. I had found the first of these, and, turning, had begun to descend, when:

“Knox! Knox!” came softly from the opening in the box hedge, “what the devil are you about?”

It was Paul Harley returned from his tour of the building.

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170 “Harley!” I whispered, descending, “quick! the Colonel has just gone into the Tudor garden!”

“What!” There was a note of absolute horror in the exclamation. “You should have stopped him, Knox, you should have stopped him!” cried Harley, and with that he ran off in the same direction.

Disentangling my foot from the rungs of the ladder which lay upon the ground, I was about to follow, when it happened—that strange and ghastly thing toward which, secretly, darkly, events had been tending.

The crack of a rifle sounded sharply in the stillness, echoing and re-echoing from wing to wing of Cray’s Folly and then, more dimly, up the wooded slopes beyond! Somewhere ahead of me I heard Harley cry out:

“My God, I am too late! They have got him!”

Then, hotfoot, I was making for the entrance to the garden. Just as I came to it and raced down the steps I heard another sound the memory of which haunts me to this day.

Where it came from I had no idea. Perhaps I was too confused to judge accurately. It might have come from the house, or from the slopes beyond the house, But it was a sort of shrill, choking laugh, and it set the ultimate touch of horror upon a scène macabre which, even as I write of it, seems unreal to me.

I ran up the path to where Harley was kneeling beside the sun-dial. Analysis of my emotions at this moment were futile; I can only say that I had come to a state of stupefaction. Face downward on the grass, arms outstretched and fists clenched, lay Colonel Menendez. I think I saw him move convulsively, but as I gained his side Harley looked up at me, and beneath the tan which he never lost his face had grown pale. He spoke through clenched teeth.

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Rh “Merciful God,” he said, “he is shot through the head.”

One glance I gave at the ghastly wound in the base of the Colonel’s skull, and then swayed backward in a sort of nausea. To see a man die in the heat of battle, a man one has known and called friend, is strange and terrible. Here in this moon-bathed Tudor garden it was a horror almost beyond my powers to endure.

Paul Harley, without touching the prone figure, stood up. Indeed no examination of the victim was necessary. A rifle bullet had pierced his brain, and he lay there dead with his head toward the hills.

I clutched at Harley’s shoulder, but he stood rigidly, staring up the slope past the angle of the tower, to where a gable of the Guest House jutted out from the trees.

“Did you hear—that cry?” I whispered, “immediately after the shot?”

“I heard it.”

A moment longer he stood fixedly watching, and then:

“Not a wisp of smoke,” he said. “You note the direction in which he was facing when he fell?”

He spoke in a stern and unnatural voice.

“I do. He must have turned half right when he came to the sun-dial.”

“Where were you when the shot was fired?”

“Running in this direction.”

“You saw no flash?”

“None.”

“Neither did I,” groaned Harley; “neither did I. And short of throwing a cordon round the hills what can be done? How can I move?”

He had somewhat relaxed, but now as I continued to clutch his arm, I felt the muscles grow rigid again.

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172 “Look, Knox!” he whispered—“look!”

I followed the direction of his fixed stare, and through the trees on the hillside a dim light shone out. Someone had lighted a lamp in the Guest House.

A faint, sibilant sound drew my glance upward, and there overhead a bat circled—circled—dipped—and flew off toward the distant woods. So still was the night that I could distinguish the babble of the little stream which ran down into the lake. Then, suddenly, came a loud flapping of wings. The swans had been awakened by the sound of the shot. Others had been awakened, too, for now distant voices became audible, and then a muffled scream from somewhere within Cray’s Folly.

“Back to the house, Knox,” said Harley, hoarsely. “For God’s sake keep the women away. Get Pedro, and send Manoel for the nearest doctor. It’s useless but usual. Let no one deface his footprints. My worst anticipations have come true. The local police must be informed.”

Throughout the time that he spoke he continued to search the moon-bathed landscape with feverish eagerness, but except for a faint movement of birds in the trees, for they, like the swans on the lake, had been alarmed by the shot, nothing stirred.

“It came from the hillside,” he muttered. “Off you go, Knox.”

And even as I started on my unpleasant errand, he had set out running toward the gate in the southern corner of the garden.

For my part I scrambled unceremoniously up the bank, and emerged where the yews stood sentinel beside the path. I ran through the gap in the box hedge just as the main doors were thrown open by Pedro.

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Rh He started back as he saw me.

“Pedro! Pedro!” I cried, “have the ladies been awakened?”

“Yes, yes! there is terrible trouble, sir. What has happened? What has happened?”

“A tragedy,” I said, shortly. “Pull yourself together. Where is Madame de Stämer?”

Pedro uttered some exclamation in Spanish and stood, pale-faced, swaying before me, a dishevelled figure in a dressing gown. And now in the background Mrs. Fisher appeared. One frightened glance she cast in my direction, and would have hurried across the hall but I intercepted her, and:

“Where are you going, Mrs. Fisher?” I demanded. “What has happened here?”

“To Madame, to Madame,” she sobbed, pointing toward the corridor which communicated with Madame de Stämer’s bedchamber.

I heard a frightened cry proceeding from that direction, and recognized the voice of Nita, the girl who acted as Madame’s maid. Then I heard Val Beverley.

“Go and fetch Mrs. Fisher, Nita, at once—and try to behave yourself. I have trouble enough.”

I entered the corridor and pulled up short. Val Beverley, fully dressed, was kneeling beside Madame de Stämer, who wore a kimono over her night-robe, and who lay huddled on the floor immediately outside the door of her room!

“Oh, Mr. Knox!” cried the girl, pitifully, and raised frightened eyes to me. “For God’s sake, what has happened?”

Nita, the Spanish girl, who was sobbing hysterically, ran along to join Mrs. Fisher.

“I will tell you in a moment,” I said, quietly,

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174 cool, as one always is, by the need of others. “But first tell me—how did Madame de Stämer get here?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know! I was startled by the shot. It has awakened everybody. And just as I opened my door to listen, I heard Madame cry out in the hall below. I ran down, turned on the light, and found her lying here. She, too, had been awakened, I suppose, and was endeavouring to drag herself from her room when her strength failed her and she swooned. She is too heavy for me to lift,” added the girl, pathetically, “and Pedro is out of his senses, and Nita, who was the first of the servants to come, is simply hysterical, as you can see.”

I nodded reassuringly, and stooping, lifted the swooning woman. She was much heavier than I should have supposed, but, Val Beverley leading the way, I carried her into her apartment and placed her upon the bed.

“I will leave her to you,” I said. “You have courage, and so I will tell you what has happened.”

“Yes, tell me, oh, tell me!”

She laid her hands upon my shoulders appealingly, and looked up into my eyes in a way that made me long to take her in my arms and comfort her, an insane longing which I only crushed with difficulty.

“Someone has shot Colonel Menendez,” I said, in a low voice, for Mrs. Fisher had just entered.

“You mean”

I nodded.

“Oh!”

Val Beverley opened and closed her eyes, clutching at me dizzily for a moment, then:

“I think,” she whispered, “she must have known,

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Rh and that was why she swooned. Oh, my God! how horrible.”

I made her sit down in an armchair, and watched her anxiously, but although every speck of colour had faded from her cheeks, she was splendidly courageous, and almost immediately she smiled up at me, very wanly, but confidently.

“I will look after her,” she said. “Mr. Harley will need your assistance.”

When I returned to the hall I found it already filled with a number of servants incongruously attired. Carter the chauffeur, who lived at the lodge, was just coming in at the door, and:

“Carter,” I said, “get a car out quickly, and bring the nearest doctor. If there is another man who can drive, send him for the police. Your master has been shot.”

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 CHAPTER XVIII INSPECTOR AYLESBURY OF MARKET HILTON

OW, gentlemen,” said Inspector Aylesbury, “I will take evidence.”

Dawn was creeping grayly over the hills, and the view from the library windows resembled a study by Bastien-Lepage. The lamps burned yellowly, and the exotic appointments of the library viewed in that cold light for some reason reminded me of a stage set seen in daylight. The Velasquez portrait mentally translated me to the billiard room where something lay upon the settee with a white sheet drawn over it; and I wondered if my own face looked as wan and comfortless as did the faces of my companions, that is, of two of them, for I must except Inspector Aylesbury.

Squarely before the oaken mantel he stood, a large, pompous man, but in this hour I could find no humour in Paul Harley’s description of him as resembling a walrus. He had a large auburn moustache tinged with gray, and prominent brown eyes, but the lower part of his face, which terminated in a big double chin, was ill-balanced by his small forehead. He was bulkily built, and I had conceived an unreasonable distaste for his puffy hands. His official air and oratorical manner were provoking.

Harley sat in the chair which he had occupied during our last interview with Colonel Menendez in the library, and I had realized—a realization which had made me

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Rh she cried, "if she would only stand still and let me see her!"

"They hardly ever stand still," he said, but for one moment Wendy saw the romantic figure come to rest on the cuckoo clock. "O the lovely!" she cried, though Tink's face was still distorted with passion.

"Tink," said Peter amiably, "this lady says she wishes you were her fairy."

Tinker Bell answered insolently.

"What does she say, Peter?"

He had to translate. "She is not very polite. She says you are a great ugly girl, and that she is my fairy."

He tried to argue with Tink. "You know you can't be my fairy, Tink, because I am a gentleman and you are a lady."

To this Tink replied in these words, "You silly ass," and disappeared into the bathroom. "She is quite a common fairy," Peter explained apologetically, "she is called Tinker Bell because she mends the pots and kettles."

They were together in the armchair by this time, and Wendy plied him with more questions.

"If you don't live in Kensington Gardens now——"

"Sometimes I do still."

"But where do you live mostly now?"

"With the lost boys." Rh

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Rh uncomfortable—that I was seated upon the couch on which the Colonel had reclined. Only one other was present, Dr. Rolleston of Mid-Hatton, a slight, fair man with a brisk, military manner, acquired perhaps during six years of war service. He was standing beside me smoking a cigarette.

“I have taken all the necessary particulars concerning the position of the body,” continued the Inspector, “the nature of the wound, contents of pockets, etc., and I now turn to you, Mr. Harley, as the first person to discover the murdered man.”

Paul Harley lay back in the armchair watching the speaker.

“Before we come to what happened here to-night I should like to be quite clear about your own position in the matter, Mr. Harley. Now”—Inspector Aylesbury raised one finger in forensic manner—“now, you visited me yesterday afternoon, Mr. Harley, and asked for certain information regarding the neighbourhood.”

“I did,” said Harley, shortly.

“The questions which you asked me were,” continued the Inspector, slowly and impressively, “did I know of any negro or coloured people living in, or about, Mid-Hatton, and could I give you a list of the residents within a two-mile radius of Cray’s Folly. I gave you the information which you required, and now it is your turn to give me some. Why did you ask those questions?”

“For this reason,” was the reply—“I had been requested by Colonel Menendez to visit Cray’s Folly, accompanied by my friend, Mr. Knox, in order that I might investigate certain occurrences which had taken place here.”

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178 “Oh,” said the Inspector, raising his eyebrows, “I see. You were here to make investigations?”

“Yes.”

“And these occurrences, will you tell me what they were?”

“Simple enough in themselves,” replied Harley. “Someone broke into the house one night.”

“Broke into the house?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“But this was never reported to us.”

“Possibly not, but someone broke in, nevertheless. Secondly, Colonel Menendez had detected someone lurking about the lawns, and thirdly, the wing of a bat was nailed to the main door.”

Inspector Aylesbury lowered his eyebrows and concentrated a frowning glance upon the speaker.

“Of course, sir,” he said, “I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but you are not by any chance trying to be funny at a time like this?”

“My sense of humour has failed me entirely,” replied Harley. “I am merely stating bald facts in reply to your questions.”

“Oh, I see.”

The Inspector cleared his throat.

“Someone broke into Cray’s Folly, then, a fact which was not reported to me, a suspicious loiterer was seen in the grounds, again not reported, and someone played a silly practical joke by nailing the wing of a bat, you say, to the door. Might I ask, Mr. Harley, why you mention this matter? The other things are serious, but why you should mention the trick of some mischievous boy at a time like this I can’t imagine.”

“No,” said Harley, wearily, “it does sound absurd, Inspector; I quite appreciate the fact. But, you see,

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Rh Colonel Menendez regarded it as the most significant episode of them all.”

“What! The bat wing nailed on the door?”

“The bat wing, decidedly. He believed it to be the token of a negro secret society which had determined upon his death, hence my enquiries regarding coloured men in the neighbourhood. Do you understand, Inspector?”

Inspector Aylesbury took a large handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. Replacing the handkerchief he cleared his throat, and:

“Am I to understand,” he enquired, “that the late Colonel Menendez had expected to be attacked?”

“You may understand that,” replied Harley. “It explains my presence in the house.”

“Oh,” said the Inspector, “I see. It looks as though he might have done better if he had applied to me.”

Paul Harley glanced across in my direction and smiled grimly.

“As I had predicted, Knox,” he murmured, “my Waterloo.”

“What’s that you say about Waterloo, Mr. Harley?” demanded the Inspector.

“Nothing germane to the case,” replied Harley. “It was a reference to a battle, not to a railway station.”

Inspector Aylesbury stared at him dully.

“You quite understand that you are giving evidence?” he said.

“It were impossible not to appreciate the fact.”

“Very well, then. The late Colonel Menendez thought he was in danger from negroes. Why did he think that?”

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180 “He was a retired West Indian planter,” replied Harley, patiently, “and he was under the impression that he had offended a powerful native society, and that for many years their vengeance had pursued him. Attempts to assassinate him had already taken place in Cuba and in the United States.”

“What sort of attempts?”

“He was shot at, several times, and once, in Washington, was attacked by a man with a knife. He maintained in my presence and in the presence of my friend, Mr. Knox, here, that these various attempts were due to members of a sect or religion known as Voodoo.”

“Voodoo?”

“Voodoo, Inspector, also known as Obeah, a cult which has spread from the West Coast of Africa throughout the West Indies and to parts of the United States. The bat wing is said to be a sign used by these people.”

Inspector Aylesbury scratched his chin.

“Now let me get this thing clear,” said he: “Colonel Menendez believed that people called Voodoos wanted to kill him? Before we go any farther, why?”

“Twenty years ago in the West Indies he had shot an important member of this sect.”

“Twenty years ago?”

“According to a statement which he made to me, yes.”

“I see. Then for twenty years these Voodoos have been trying to kill him? Then he comes and settles here in Surrey and someone nails a bat wing to his door? Did you see this bat wing?”

“I did. I have it upstairs in my bag if you would care to examine it.”

“Oh,” said the Inspector, “I see. And thinking he

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Rh had been followed to England he came to you to see if you could save him?”

Paul Harley nodded grimly.

“Why did he go to you in preference to the local police, the proper authorities?” demanded the Inspector.

“He was advised to do so by the Spanish ambassador, or so he informed me.”

“Is that so? Well, I suppose it had to be. Coming from foreign parts. I expect he didn’t know what our police are for.” He cleared his throat. “Very well, I understand now what you were doing here, Mr. Harley. The next thing is, what were you doing to-night, as I see that both you and Mr. Knox are still in evening dress?”

“We were keeping watch,” I replied.

Inspector Aylesbury turned to me ponderously, raising a fat hand. “One moment, Mr. Knox, one moment,” he protested. “The evidence of one witness at a time.”

“We were keeping watch,” said Harley, deliberately echoing my words.

“Why?”

“More or less we were here for that purpose. You see, on the night of the full moon, according to Colonel Menendez, Obeah people become particularly active.”

“Why on the night of the full moon?”

“This I cannot tell you.”

“Oh, I see. You were keeping watch. Where were you keeping watch?”

“In my room.”

“In which part of the house is your room?”

“Northeast. It overlooks the Tudor garden.”

“At what time did you retire?”

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182 “About half-past ten.”

“Did you leave the Colonel well?”

“No, he had been unwell all day. He had remained in his room.”

“Had he asked you to sit up?”

“Not at all; our vigil was quite voluntary.”

“Very well, then, you were in your room when the shot was fired?”

“On the contrary, I was on the path in front of the house.”

“Oh, I see. The front door was open, then?”

“Not at all. Pedro had locked up for the night.”

“And locked you out?”

“No; I descended from my window by means of a ladder which I had brought with me for the purpose.”

“With a ladder? That’s rather extraordinary, Mr. Harley.”

“It is extraordinary. I have strange habits.”

Inspector Aylesbury cleared his throat again and looked frowningly across at my friend.

“What part of the grounds were you in when the shot was fired?” he demanded.

“Halfway along the north side.”

“What were you doing?”

“I was running.”

“Running?”

“You see, Inspector, I regarded it as my duty to patrol the grounds of the house at nightfall, since, for all I knew to the contrary, some of the servants might be responsible for the attempts of which the Colonel complained. I had descended from the window of my room, had passed entirely around the house east to west, and had returned to my starting-point when Mr.

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Rh Knox, who was looking out of the window, observed Colonel Menendez entering the Tudor garden.”

“Oh. Colonel Menendez was not visible to you?”

“Not from my position below, but being informed by my friend, who was hurriedly descending the ladder, that the Colonel had entered the garden, I set off running to intercept him.”

“Why?”

“He had acquired a habit of walking in his sleep, and I presumed that he was doing so on this occasion.”

“Oh, I see. So being told by the gentleman at the window that Colonel Menendez was in the garden, you started to run toward him. While you were running you heard a shot?”

“I did.”

“Where do you think it came from?”

“Nothing is more difficult to judge, Inspector, especially when one is near to a large building surrounded by trees.”

“Nevertheless,” said the Inspector, again raising his finger and frowning at Harley, “you cannot tell me that you formed no impression on the point. For instance, was it near, or a long way off?”

“It was fairly near.”

“Ten yards, twenty yards, a hundred yards, a mile?”

“Within a hundred yards. I cannot be more exact.”

“Within a hundred yards, and you have no idea from which direction the shot was fired?”

“From the sound I could form none.”

“Oh, I see. And what did you do?”

“I ran on and down into the sunken garden. I saw Colonel Menendez lying upon his face near the sun-dial. He was moving convulsively. Running up to him, I saw that he had been shot through the head.”

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184 “What steps did you take?”

“My friend, Mr. Knox, had joined me, and I sent him for assistance.”

“But what steps did you take to apprehend the murderer?”

Paul Harley looked at him quietly.

“What steps should you have taken?” he asked.

Inspector Aylesbury cleared his throat again, and:

“I don’t think I should have let my man slip through my fingers like that,” he replied. “Why! by now he may be out of the county.”

“Your theory is quite feasible,” said Harley, tonelessly.

“You were actually on the spot when the shot was fired, you admit that it was fired within a hundred yards, yet you did nothing to apprehend the murderer.”

“No,” replied Harley, “I was ridiculously inactive. You see, I am a mere amateur, Inspector. For my future guidance I should be glad to know what the correct procedure would have been.”

Inspector Aylesbury blew his nose.

“I know my job,” he said. “If I had been called in there might have been a different tale to tell. But he was a foreigner, and he paid for his ignorance, poor fellow.”

Paul Harley took out his pipe and began to load it in a deliberate and lazy manner.

Inspector Aylesbury turned his prominent eyes in my direction.

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 CHAPTER XIX COMPLICATIONS

AM afraid of this man Aylesbury,” said Paul Harley. We sat in the deserted dining room. I had contributed my account of the evening’s happenings, Dr. Rolleston had made his report, and Inspector Aylesbury was now examining the servants in the library. Harley and I had obtained his official permission to withdraw, and the physician was visiting Madame de Stämer, who lay in a state of utter prostration.

“What do you mean, Harley?”

“I mean that he will presently make some tragic blunder. Good God, Knox, to think that this man had sought my aid, and that I stood by idly whilst he walked out to his death. I shall never forgive myself.” He banged the table with his fist. “Even now that these unknown fiends have achieved their object, I am helpless, helpless. There was not a wisp of smoke to guide me, Knox, and one man cannot search a county.”

I sighed wearily.

“Do you know, Harley,” I said, “I am thinking of a verse of Kipling’s.”

“I know!” he interrupted, almost savagely.

“Oh, I know, Knox. I heard that damnable laughter, too.”

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 “My God,” I whispered, “who was it? What was it? Where did it come from?”

“As well ask where the shot came from, Knox. Out amongst all those trees, with a house that might have been built for a sounding-board, who could presume to say where either came from? One thing we know, that the shot came from the south.”

He leaned upon a corner of the table, staring at me intently.

“From the south?” I echoed.

Harley glanced in the direction of the open door.

“Presently,” he said, “we shall have to tell Aylesbury everything that we know. After all, he represents the law; but unless we can get Inspector Wessex down from Scotland Yard, I foresee a miscarriage of justice. Colonel Menendez lay on his face, and the line made by his recumbent body pointed almost directly toward”

I nodded, watching him.

“I know, Harley—toward the Guest House.”

Paul Harley inclined his head, grimly.

“The first light which we saw,” he continued, “was in a window of the Guest House. It may have had no significance. Awakened by the sound of a rifle-shot near by, any one would naturally get up.”

“And having decided to come downstairs and investigate,” I continued, “would naturally light a lamp.”

“Quite so.” He stared at me very hard. “Yet,” he said, “unless Mr. Colin Camber can produce an alibi I foresee a very stormy time for him.”

“So do I, Harley. A deadly hatred existed between these two men, and probably this horrible deed was done on the spur of the moment. It is of his poor little

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 girl-wife that I am thinking. As though her troubles were not heavy enough already.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “I am almost tempted to hold my tongue, Knox, until I have personally interviewed these people. But of course if our blundering friend directly questions me, I shall have no alternative. I shall have to answer him. His talent for examination, however, scarcely amounts to genius, so that we may not be called upon for further details at the moment. I wonder how I can induce him to requisition Scotland Yard?”

He rested his chin in his hand and stared down reflectively at the carpet. I thought that he looked very haggard, as he sat there in the early morning light, dressed as for dinner. There was something pathetic in the pose of his bowed head.

Leaning across, I placed my hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t get despondent, old chap,” I said. “You have not failed yet.”

“Oh, but I have, Knox!” he cried, fiercely, “I have! He came to me for protection. Now he lies dead in his own house. Failed? I have failed utterly, miserably.”

I turned aside as the door opened and Dr. Rolleston came in.

“Ah, gentlemen,” he said, “I wanted to see you before leaving. I have just been to visit Madame de Stämer again.”

“Yes,” said Harley, eagerly; “how is she?”

Dr. Rolleston lighted a cigarette, frowning perplexedly the while.

“To be honest,” he replied, “her condition puzzles me.”

He walked across to the fireplace and dropped the match, staring at Harley with a curious expression.

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 “Has any one told her the truth?” he asked.

“You mean that Colonel Menendez is dead?”

“Yes,” replied Dr. Rolleston. “I understood that no one had told her?”

“No one has done so to my knowledge,” said Harley.

“Then the sympathy between them must have been very acute,” murmured the physician, “for she certainly knows!”

“Do you really think she knows?” I asked.

“I am certain of it. She must have had knowledge of a danger to be apprehended, and being awakened by the sound of the rifle shot, have realized by a sort of intuition that the expected tragedy had happened. I should say, from the presence of a small bruise which I found upon her forehead, that she had actually walked out into the corridor.”

“Walked?” I cried.

“Yes,” said the physician. “She is a shell-shock case, of course, and we sometimes find that a second shock counteracts the effect of the first. This, temporarily at any rate, seems to have happened to-night. She is now in a very curious state: a form of hysteria, no doubt, but very curious all the same.”

“Miss Beverley is with her?” I asked.

Dr. Rolleston nodded affirmatively.

“Yes, a very capable nurse. I am glad to know that Madame de Stämer is in such good hands. I am calling again early in the morning, and I have told Mrs. Fisher to see that nothing is said within hearing of the room which could enable Madame de Stämer to obtain confirmation of the idea, which she evidently entertains, that Colonel Menendez is dead.”

“Does she actually assert that he is dead?” asked Harley.

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Rh “My dear sir,” replied Dr. Rolleston, “she asserts nothing. She sits there like Niobe changed to stone, staring straight before her. She seems to be unaware of the presence of everyone except Miss Beverley. The only words she has spoken since recovering consciousness have been, ‘Don’t leave me!’”

“Hm,” muttered Harley. “You have not attended Madame de Stämer before, doctor?”

“No,” was the reply, “this is the first time I have entered Cray’s Folly since it was occupied by Sir James Appleton.”

He was about to take his departure when the door opened and Inspector Aylesbury walked in.

“Ah,” said he, “I have two more witnesses to interview: Madame de Stämer and Miss Beverley. From these witnesses I hope to get particulars of the dead man’s life which may throw some light upon the identity of his murderer.”

“It is impossible to see either of them at present,” replied Dr. Rolleston briskly.

“What’s that, doctor?” asked the Inspector. “Are they hysterical, or something?”

“As a result of the shock, Madame de Stämer is dangerously ill,” replied the physician, “and Miss Beverley is remaining with her.”

“Oh, I see. But Miss Beverley could come out for a few minutes?”

“She could,” admitted the physician, sharply, “but I don’t wish her to do so.”

“Oh, but the law must be served, doctor.”

“Quite so, but not at the expense of my patient’s reason.”

He was a resolute man, this country practitioner, and I saw Harley smiling in grim approval.

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190 “I have expressed my opinion,” he said, finally, walking out of the room; “I shall leave the responsibility to you, Inspector Aylesbury. Good morning, gentlemen.”

Inspector Aylesbury scratched his chin.

“That’s awkward,” he muttered. “The evidence of this woman is highly important.”

He turned toward us, doubtingly, whereupon Harley stood up, yawning.

“If I can be of any further assistance to you, Inspector,” said my friend, “command me. Otherwise, I feel sure you will appreciate the fact that both Mr. Knox and myself are extremely tired, and have passed through a very trying ordeal.”

“Yes,” replied Inspector Aylesbury, “that’s all very well, but I find myself at a deadlock.”

“You surprise me,” declared Harley.

“I can see nothing to be surprised about,” cried the Inspector. “When I was called in it was already too late.”

“Most unfortunate,” murmured Harley, disagreeably. “Come along, Knox, you look tired to death.”

“One moment, gentlemen,” the Inspector insisted, as I stood up. “One moment. There is a little point which you may be able to clear up.”

Harley paused, his hand on the door knob, and turned.

“The point is this,” continued the Inspector, frowning portentously and lowering his chin so that it almost disappeared into the folds of his neck, “I have now interviewed all the inmates of Cray’s Folly except the ladies. It appears to me that four people had not gone to bed. There are you two gentlemen, who have explained why I found you in evening dress, Colonel

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Rh "Who are they they?"

"They are the children who fall out of their perambulators when the nurse is looking the other way. If they are not claimed in seven days they are sent far away to the Neverland to defray expenses. I'm captain."

"What fun it must be!"

"Yes," said cunning Peter, "but we are rather lonely. You see we have no female companionship."

"Are none of the others girls?"

"Oh no; girls, you know, are much too clever to fall out of their prams."

This flattered Wendy immensely. "I think," she said, "it is perfectly lovely the way you talk about girls; John there just despises us."

For reply Peter rose and kicked John out of bed, blankets and all; one kick. This seemed to Wendy rather forward for a first meeting, and she told him with spirit that he was not captain in her house. However, John continued to sleep so placidly on the floor that she allowed him to remain there. "And I know you meant to be kind," she said, relenting, "so you may give me a kiss."

For the moment she had forgotten his ignorance about kisses. "I thought you would want it back," he said a little bitterly, and offered to return her the thimble. Rh

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Rh Menendez, who can never explain, and there is one other.”

He paused, looking from Harley to myself.

It had come, the question which I had dreaded, the question which I had been asking myself ever since I had seen Val Beverley kneeling in the corridor, dressed as she had been when we had parted for the night.

“I refer to Miss Val Beverley,” the police-court voice proceeded. “This lady had evidently not retired, and neither, it would appear, had the Colonel.”

“Neither had I,” murmured Harley, “and neither had Mr. Knox.”

“Your reason I understand,” said the Inspector, “or at least your explanation is a possible one. But if the party broke up, as you say it did, somewhere about half-past ten o’clock, and if Madame de Stämer had gone to bed, why should Miss Beverley have remained up?” He paused significantly. “As well as Colonel Menendez?” he added.

“Look here, Inspector Aylesbury,” I interrupted, speaking in a very quiet tone, I remember, “your insinuations annoy me.”

“Oh,” said he, turning his prominent eyes in my direction, “I see. They annoy you? If they annoy you, sir, perhaps you can explain this point which is puzzling me?”

“I cannot explain it, but doubtless Miss Beverley can do so when you ask her.”

“I should like to have asked her now, and I can’t make out why she refuses to see me.”

“She has not refused to see you,” replied Harley, smoothly. “She is probably unaware of the fact that you wish to see her.”

“I don’t know so much,” muttered the Inspector.

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192 “In my opinion I am being deliberately baffled on all sides. You can throw no light on this matter, then?”

“None,” I answered, shortly, and Paul Harley shook his head.

“But you must remember, Inspector,” he explained, “that the entire household was in a state of unrest.”

“In other words, everybody was waiting for this very thing to happen?”

“Consciously, or subconsciously, everybody was.”

“What do you mean by consciously or subconsciously?”

“I mean that those of us who were aware of the previous attempts on the life of the Colonel apprehended this danger. And I believe that something of this apprehension had extended even to the servants.”

“Oh, to the servants? Now, I have seen all the servants, except the chef, who lives at a house on the outskirts of Mid-Hatton, as you may know. Can you give me any information about this man?”

“I have seen him,” replied Harley, “and have congratulated him upon his culinary art. His name, I believe, is Deronne. He is a Spaniard, and a little fat man. Quite an amiable creature,” he added.

“Hm.” The Inspector cleared his throat noisily.

“If that is all,” said Harley, “I should welcome an opportunity of a few hours’ sleep.”

“Oh,” said the Inspector. “Well, I suppose that is quite natural, but I shall probably have a lot more questions to ask you later.”

“Quite,” muttered Harley, “quite. Come on, Knox. Good-night, Inspector Aylesbury.”

“Good-night.”

Harley walked out of the dining room and across the

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Rh deserted hall. He slowly mounted the stairs and I followed him into his room. It was now quite light, and as my friend dropped down upon the bed I thought that he looked very tired and haggard.

“Knox,” he said, “shut the door.”

I closed the door and turned to him.

“You heard that question about Miss Beverley?” I began.

“I heard it, and I am wondering what her answer will be when the Inspector puts it to her personally.”

“Surely it is obvious?” I cried. “A cloud of apprehension had settled on the house last night, Harley, which was like the darkness of Egypt. The poor girl was afraid to go to bed. She was probably sitting up reading.”

“Hm,” said Harley, drumming his feet upon the carpet. “Of course you realize that there is one person in Cray’s Folly who holds the clue to the heart of the mystery?”

“Madame de Stämer?”

He nodded grimly.

“When the rifle cracked out, Knox, she knew! Remember, no one had told her the truth. Yet can you doubt that she knows?”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Neither do I.” He clenched his teeth tightly and beat his fists upon the coverlet. “I was dreading that our friend the Inspector would ask a question which to my mind was very obvious.”

“You mean?”

“Well, what investigator whose skull contained anything more useful than bubbles would have failed to ask if Colonel Menendez had an enemy in the neighbourhood?”

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194 “No one,” I admitted; “but I fear the poor man is sadly out of his depth.”

“He is wading hopelessly, Knox, but even he cannot fail to learn about Camber to-morrow.”

He stared at me in a curiously significant manner.

“Do you mean, Harley,” I began, “that you really think”

“My dear Knox,” he interrupted, “forgetting, if you like, all that preceded the tragedy, with what facts are we left? That Colonel Menendez, at the moment when the bullet entered his brain, must have been standing facing directly toward the Guest House. Now, you have seen the direction of the wound?”

“He was shot squarely between the eyes. A piece of wonderful marksmanship.”

“Quite,” Harley nodded his head. “But the bullet came out just at the vertex of the spine.”

He paused, as if waiting for some comment, and:

“You mean that the shot came from above?” I said, slowly.

“Obviously it came from above, Knox. Keep these two points in your mind, and then consider the fact that someone lighted a lamp in the Guest House only a few moments after the shot had been fired.”

“I remember. I saw it.”

“So did I,” said Harley, grimly, “and I saw something else.”

“What was that?”

“When you went off to summon assistance I ran across the lawn, scrambled through the bushes, and succeeded in climbing down into the little gully in which the stream runs, and up on the other side. I had proceeded practically in a straight line from the sun-dial, and do you know where I found myself?”

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Rh “I can guess,” I replied.

“Of course you can. You have visited the place. I came out immediately beside a little hut, Knox, which stands at the end of the garden of the Guest House. Ahead of me, visible through a tangle of bushes in the neglected garden, a lamp was burning. I crept cautiously forward, and presently obtained a view of the interior of a kitchen. Just as I arrived at this point of vantage the lamp was extinguished, but not before I had had a glimpse of the only occupant of the room—the man who had extinguished the lamp.”

“Who was it?” I asked, in a low voice.

“It was a Chinaman.”

“Ah Tsong!” I cried.

“Doubtless.”

“Good heavens, Harley, do you think”

“I don’t know what to think, Knox. A possible explanation is that the household had been aroused by the sound of the shot, and that Ah Tsong had been directed to go out and see if he could learn what had happened. At any rate, I waited no longer, but returned by the same route. If our portly friend from Market Hilton had possessed the eyes of an Auguste Dupin, he could not have failed to note that my dress boots were caked with light yellow clay; which also, by the way, besmears my trousers.”

He stooped and examined the garments as he spoke.

“A number of thorns are also present,” he continued. “In short, from the point of view of an investigation, I am a most provoking object.”

He sighed wearily, and stared out of the window in the direction of the Tudor garden. There was a slight chilliness in the air, which, or perhaps a sudden memory

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196 of that which lay in the billiard room beneath us, may have accounted for the fact that I shivered violently.

Harley glanced up with a rather sad smile.

“The morning after Waterloo,” he said. “Sleep well, Knox.”

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 CHAPTER XX A SPANISH CIGARETTE

LEEP was not for me, despite Harley’s injunction, and although I was early afoot, the big house was already astir with significant movements which set the imagination on fire, to conjure up again the moonlight scene in the garden, making mock of the song of the birds and of the glory of the morning.

Manoel replied to my ring, and prepared my bath, but it was easy to see that he had not slept.

No sound came from Harley’s room, therefore I did not disturb him, but proceeded downstairs in the hope of finding Miss Beverley about. Pedro was in the hall, talking to Mrs. Fisher, and:

“Is Inspector Aylesbury here?” I asked.

“No, sir, but he will be returning at about half-past eight, so he said.”

“How is Madame de Stämer, Mrs. Fisher?” I enquired.

“Oh, poor, poor Madame,” said the old lady, “she is asleep, thank God. But I am dreading her awakening.”

“The blow is a dreadful one,” I admitted; “and Miss Beverley?”

“She didn’t go to her room until after four o’clock, sir, but Nita tells me that she will be down any moment now.”

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198 “Ah,” said I, and lighting a cigarette, I walked out of the open doors into the courtyard.

I dreaded all the ghastly official formalities which the day would bring, since I realized that the brunt of the trouble must fall upon the shoulders of Miss Beverley in the absence of Madame de Stämer.

I wandered about restlessly, awaiting the girl’s appearance. A little two seater was drawn up in the courtyard, but I had not paid much attention to it, until, wandering through the opening in the box hedge and on along the gravel path, I saw unfamiliar figures moving in the billiard room, and turned, hastily retracing my steps. Officialdom was at work already, and I knew that there would be no rest for any of us from that hour onward.

As I reëntered the hall I saw Val Beverley coming down the staircase. She looked pale, but seemed to be in better spirits than I could have hoped for, although there were dark shadows under her eyes.

“Good morning, Miss Beverley,” I said.

“Good morning, Mr. Knox. It was good of you to come down so early.”

“I had hoped for a chat with you before Inspector Aylesbury returned,” I explained.

She looked at me pathetically.

“I suppose he will want me to give evidence?”

“He will. We had great difficulty in persuading him not to demand your presence last night.”

“It was impossible,” she protested. “It would have been cruel to make me leave Madame in the circumstances.”

“We realized this, Miss Beverley, but you will have to face the ordeal this morning.”

We walked through into the library, where a maid,

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Rh white-faced and frightened looking, was dusting in a desultory fashion. She went out as we entered, and Val Beverley stood looking from the open window out into the rose garden bathed in the morning sunlight.

“Oh, Heavens,” she said, clenching her hands desperately, “even now I cannot realize that the horrible thing is true.” She turned to me. “Who can possibly have committed this cold-blooded crime?” she said in a low voice. “What does Mr. Harley think? Has he any idea, any idea whatever?”

“Not that he has confided to me,” I said, watching her intently. “But tell me, does Madame de Stämer know yet?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean has she been told the truth?”

The girl shook her head.

“No,” she replied; “I am positive that no one has told her. I was with her all the time, up to the very moment that she fell asleep. Yet”

She hesitated.

“Yes?”

“She knows! Oh, Mr. Knox! to me that is the most horrible thing of all: that she knows, that she must have known all along—that the mere sound of the shot told her everything!”

“You realize, now,” I said, quietly, “that she had anticipated the end?”

“Yes, yes. This was the meaning of the sorrow which I had seen so often in her eyes, the meaning of so much that puzzled me in her words, the explanation of lots of little things which have made me wonder in the past.”

I was silent for a while, then:

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200 “If she was so certain that no one could save him,” I said, “she must have had information which neither he nor she ever imparted to us.”

“I am sure she had,” declared Val Beverley.

“But can you think of any reason why she should not have confided in Paul Harley?”

“I cannot, I cannot—unless”

“Yes?”

“Unless, Mr. Knox,” she looked at me strangely, “they were both under some vow of silence. Oh! it sounds ridiculous, wildly ridiculous, but what other explanation can there be?”

“What other, indeed? And now, Miss Beverley, I know one of the questions Inspector Aylesbury will ask you.”

“What is it?”

“He has learned, from one of the servants I presume, as he did not see you, that you had not retired last night at the time of the tragedy.”

“I had not,” said Val Beverley, quietly. “Is that so singular?”

“To me it is no more than natural.”

“I have never been so frightened in all my life as I was last night. Sleep was utterly out of the question. There was mystery in the very air. I knew, oh, Mr. Knox, in some way I knew that a tragedy was going to happen.”

“I believe I knew, too,” I said. “Good God, to think that we might have saved him!”

“Do you think” began Val Beverley, and then paused.

“Yes?” I prompted.

“Oh, I was going to say a strange thing that suddenly occurred to me, but it is utterly foolish, I suppose.

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Rh Inspector Aylesbury is coming back at nine o’clock, is he not?”

“At half-past eight, so I understand.”

“I am afraid I have very little to tell him. I was sitting in my room in an appalling state of nerves when the shot was fired. I was not even reading; I was just waiting, waiting, for something to happen.”

“I understand. My own experience was nearly identical.”

“Then,” continued the girl, “as I unlocked my door and peeped out, feeling too frightened to venture farther in the darkness, I heard Madame’s voice in the hall below.”

“Crying for help?”

“No,” replied the girl, a puzzled frown appearing between her brows. “She cried out something in French. The intonation told me that it was French, although I could not detect a single word. Then I thought I heard a moan.”

“And you ran down?”

“Yes. I summoned up enough courage to turn on the light in the corridor and to run down to the hall. And there she was lying just outside the door of her room.”

“Was her room in darkness?”

“Yes. I turned on the light and succeeded in partly raising her, but she was too heavy for me to lift. I was still trying to revive her when Pedro opened the door of the servants’ quarters. Oh,” she closed her eyes wearily, “I shall never forget it.”

I took her hand and pressed it reassuringly.

“Your courage has been wonderful throughout,” I declared, “and I hope it will remain so to the end.”

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Rh "Oh dear," said the nice Wendy, "I don't mean a kiss, I mean a thimble."

"What's that?"

"It's like this." She kissed him.

"Funny!" said Peter gravely. "Now shall I give you a thimble?"

"If you wish to," said Wendy, keeping her head erect this time.

Peter thimbled her, and almost immediately she screeched. "What is it, Wendy?"

"It was exactly as if some one were pulling my hair."

"That must have been Tink. I never knew her so naughty before."

And indeed Tink was darting about again, using offensive language.

"She says she will do that to you, Wendy, every time I give you a thimble."

"But why?"

"Why, Tink?"

Again Tink replied, "You silly ass." Peter could not understand why, but Wendy understood, and she was just slightly disappointed when he admitted that he came to the nursery window not to see her but to listen to stories.

"You see I don't know any stories. None of the lost boys know any stories."

"How perfectly awful," Wendy said.

"Do you know," Peter asked, "why swallows Rh

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202 She smiled, and flushed slightly, as I released her hand again.

“I must go and take a peep at Madame now,” she said, “but of course I shall not disturb her if she is still sleeping.”

We turned and walked slowly back to the hall, and there just entering from the courtyard was Inspector Aylesbury.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, “good morning, Mr. Knox. This is Miss Beverley, I presume?”

“Yes, Inspector,” replied the girl. “I understand that you wish to speak to me?”

“I do, Miss, but I shall not detain you for many minutes.”

“Very well,” she said, and as she turned and retraced her steps, he followed her back into the library.

I walked out to the courtyard, and avoiding the Tudor garden and the billiard room, turned in the other direction, passing the stables where Jim, the negro groom, saluted me very sadly, and proceeded round to the south side of the house.

Inspector Aylesbury, I perceived, had wasted no time. I counted no fewer than four men, two of them in uniform, searching the lawns and the slopes beyond, although what they were looking for I could not imagine.

Giving the library a wide berth, I walked along the second terrace, and presently came in sight of the east wing and the tower. There, apparently engaged in studying the rhododendrons, I saw Paul Harley.

He signalled to me, and, crossing the lawn, I joined him where he stood.

Without any word of greeting:

“You see, Knox,” he said, speaking in the eager

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Rh manner which betokened a rapidly working brain, “this is the path which the Colonel must have followed last night. Yonder is the door by which, according to his own account, he came out on a previous occasion, walking in his sleep. Do you remember?”

“I remember,” I replied.

“Well, Pedro found it unlocked this morning. You see it faces practically due south, and the Colonel’s bedroom is immediately above us where we stand.” He stared at me queerly. “I must have passed this door last night only a few moments before the Colonel came out, for I was just crossing the courtyard and could see you at my window at the moment when you saw poor Menendez enter the Tudor garden. He must have actually been walking around the east wing at the same time that I was walking around the west. Now, I am going to show you something, Knox, something which I have just discovered.”

From his waistcoat pocket he took out a half-smoked cigarette. I stared at it uncomprehendingly.

“Of course,” he continued, “the weather has been bone dry for more than a week now, and it may have lain there for a long time, but to me, Knox, to me it looks suspiciously fresh.”

“What is the point?” I asked, perplexedly.

“The point is that it is a hand-made cigarette, one of the Colonel’s. Don’t you recognize it?”

“Good heavens!” I said; “yes, of course it is.”

He returned it to his pocket without another word.

“It may mean nothing,” he murmured, “or it may mean everything. And now, Knox, we are going to escape.”

“To escape?” I cried.

“Precisely. We are going to anticipate the probable

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204 movements of our blundering Aylesbury. In short, I wish you to present me to Mr. Colin Camber.”

“What?” I exclaimed, staring at him incredulously.

“I am going to ask you,” he began, and then, breaking off: “Quick, Knox, run!” he said.

And thereupon, to my amazement, he set off through the rhododendron bushes in the direction of the tower!

Utterly unable to grasp the meaning of his behaviour, I followed, nevertheless, and as we rounded the corner of the tower Harley pulled up short, and:

“I am not mad,” he explained rather breathlessly, “but I wanted to avoid being seen by that constable who is prowling about at the bottom of the lawn making signals in the direction of the library. Presumably he is replying to Inspector Aylesbury who wants to talk to us. I am determined to interview Camber before submitting to further official interrogation. It must be a cross-country journey, Knox. I am afraid we shall be a very muddy pair, but great issues may hang upon the success of our expedition.”

He set off briskly toward a belt of shrubbery which marked the edge of the little stream. Appreciating something of his intentions, I followed his lead unquestioningly; and, scrambling through the bushes:

“This was the point at which I descended last night,” he said. “You will have to wade, Knox, but the water is hardly above one’s ankles.”

He dropped into the brook, waded across, and began to climb up the opposite bank. I imitated his movements, and presently, having scrambled up on the farther side, we found ourselves standing on a narrow bank immediately under that summer house which

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Rh Colin Camber had told me he had formerly used as a study.

“We can scarcely present ourselves at the kitchen door,” murmured Harley; “therefore we must try to find a way round to the front. There is barbed wire here. Be careful.”

I had now entered with zest into the business, and so the pair of us waded through rank grass which in places was waist high, and on through a perfect wilderness of weeds in which nettles dominated. Presently we came to a dry ditch, which we negotiated successfully, to find ourselves upon the high road some hundred yards to the west of the Guest House.

“I predict an unfriendly reception,” I said, panting from my exertions, and surveying my friend, who was a mockery of his ordinarily spruce self.

“We must face it,” he replied, grimly. “He has everything to gain by being civil to us.”

We proceeded along the dusty high road, almost overarched by trees.

“Harley,” I said, “this is going to be a highly unpleasant ordeal for me.”

Harley stopped short, staring at me sternly.

“I know, Knox,” he replied; “but I suppose you realize that a man’s life is at stake.”

“You mean?”

“I mean that when we are both compelled to tell all we know, I doubt if there is a counsel in the land who would undertake the defence of Mr. Colin Camber.”

“Good God! then you think he is guilty?”

“Did I say so?” asked Harley, continuing on his way. “I don’t recollect saying so, Knox; but I do say that it will be a giant’s task to prove him innocent.”

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206 “Then you believe him to be innocent?” I cried, eagerly.

“My dear fellow,” he replied, somewhat irritably, “I have not yet met Mr. Colin Camber. I will answer your question at the conclusion of the interview.”

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 CHAPTER XXI THE WING OF A BAT

OR a long time our knocking and ringing elicited no response. The brilliant state of the door-brass afforded evidence of the fact that Ah Tsong had arisen, even if the other members of the household were still sleeping, and Harley, growing irritable, executed a loud tattoo upon the knocker. This had its effect. The door opened and Ah Tsong looked out.

“Tell your master that Mr. Paul Harley has called to see him upon urgent business.”

“Master no got,” replied Ah Tsong, and proceeded to close the door.

Paul Harley thrust his hand against it and addressed the man rapidly in Chinese. I could not have supposed the face of Ah Tsong capable of expressing so much animation. At the sound of his native tongue his eyes lighted up, and:

“Tchée, tchée,” he said, turned, and disappeared.

Although he had studiously avoided looking at me, that Ah Tsong would inform his master of the identity of his second visitor I did not doubt. If I had doubted I should promptly have been disillusioned, for:

“Tell them to go away!” came a muffled cry from somewhere within. “No spy of Devil Menendez shall ever pass my doors again!”

The Chinaman, on retiring, had left the door wide

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208 open, and I could see right to the end of the gloomy hall. Ah Tsong presently re-appeared, shuffling along in our direction. Unemotionally:

“Master no got,” he repeated.

Paul Harley stamped his foot irritably.

“Good God, Knox,” he said, “this unreasonable fool almost exhausts my patience.”

Again he addressed Ah Tsong in Chinese, and although the man’s wrinkled ivory face exhibited no trace of emotion, a deep understanding was to be read in those oblique eyes; and a second time Ah Tsong turned and trotted back to the study. I could hear a muttered colloquy in progress, and suddenly the gaunt figure of Colin Camber burst into view.

He was shaved this morning, but arrayed as I had last seen him. Whilst he was not in that state of incoherent anger which I remembered and still resented, he was nevertheless in an evil temper.

He strode along the hallway, his large eyes widely opened, and fixing a cold stare upon the face of Harley.

“I learn that your name is Mr. Paul Harley,” he said, entirely ignoring my presence, “and you send me a very strange message. I am used to the ways of Señor Menendez, therefore your message does not deceive me. The gateway, sir, is directly behind you.”

Harley clenched his teeth, then:

“The scaffold, Mr. Camber,” he replied, “is directly in front of you.”

“What do you mean, sir?” demanded the other, and despite my resentment of the treatment which I had received at his hands, I could only admire the lofty disdain of his manner.

“I mean, Mr. Camber, that the police are close upon my heels.”

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Rh “The police? Of what interest can this be to me?”

Harley’s keen eyes were searching the pale face of the man before him.

“Mr. Camber,” he said, “the shot was a good one.”

Not a muscle of Colin Camber’s face moved, but slowly he looked Paul Harley up and down, then:

“I have been called a hasty man,” he replied, coldly, “but I can scarcely be accused of leaping to a conclusion when I say that I believe you to be mad. You have interrupted me, sir. Good morning.”

He stepped back, and would have closed the door, but:

“Mr. Camber,” said Paul Harley, and the tone of his voice was arresting.

Colin Camber paused.

“My name is evidently unfamiliar to you,” Harley continued. “You regard myself and Mr. Knox as friends of the late Colonel Menendez”

At that Colin Camber started forward.

“The late Colonel Menendez?” he echoed, speaking almost in a whisper.

But as if he had not heard him Harley continued:

“As a matter of fact, I am a criminal investigator, and Mr. Knox is assisting me in my present case.”

Colin Camber clenched his hands and seemed to be fighting with some emotion which possessed him, then:

“Do you mean,” he said, hoarsely—“do you mean that Menendez is—dead?”

“I do,” replied Harley. “May I request the privilege of ten minutes’ private conversation with you?”

Colin Camber stood aside, holding the door open, and inclining his head in that grave salutation which I knew, but on this occasion, I think, principally with intent to hide his emotion.

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210 Not another word did he speak until the three of us stood in the strange study where East grimaced at West, and emblems of remote devil-worship jostled the cross of the Holy Rose. The place was laden with tobacco smoke, and scattered on the carpet about the feet of the writing table lay twenty or more pages of closely written manuscript. Although this was a brilliant summer’s morning, an old-fashioned reading lamp, called, I believe, a Victoria, having a nickel receptacle for oil at one side of the standard and a burner with a green glass shade upon the other, still shed its light upon the desk. It was only reasonable to suppose that Colin Camber had been at work all night.

He placed chairs for us, clearing them of the open volumes which they bore, and, seating himself at the desk:

“Mr. Knox,” he began, slowly, paused, and then stood up, “I accused you of something when you last visited my house, something of which I would not lightly accuse any man. If I was wrong, I wish to apologize.”

“Only a matter of the utmost urgency could have induced me to cross your threshold again,” I replied, coldly. “Your behaviour, sir, was inexcusable.”

He rested his long white hands upon the desk, looking across at me.

“Whatever I did and whatever I said,” he continued, “one insult I laid upon you more deadly than the rest: I accused you of friendship with Juan Menendez. Was I unjust?”

He paused for a moment.

“I had been retained professionally by Colonel Menendez,” replied Harley without hesitation, “and Mr. Knox kindly consented to accompany me.”

Colin Camber looked very hard at the speaker, and then equally hard at me.

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Rh “Was it at behest of Colonel Menendez that you called upon me, Mr. Knox?”

“It was not,” said Harley, tersely; “it was at mine. And he is here now at my request. Come, sir, we are wasting time. At any moment”

Colin Camber held up his hand, interrupting him.

“By your leave, Mr. Harley,” he said, and there was something compelling in voice and gesture, “I must first perform my duty as a gentleman.”

He stepped forward in my direction.

“Mr. Knox, I have grossly insulted you. Yet if you knew what had inspired my behaviour I believe you could find it in your heart to forgive me. I do not ask you to do so, however; I accept the humiliation of knowing that I have mortally offended a guest.”

He bowed to me formally, and would have returned to his seat, but:

“Pray say no more,” I said, standing up and extending my hand. Indeed, so impressive was the man’s strange personality that I felt rather as one receiving a royal pardon than as an offended party being offered an apology. “It was a misunderstanding. Let us forget it.”

His eyes gleamed, and he seized my hand in a warm grip.

“You are generous, Mr. Knox, you are generous. And now, sir,” he inclined his head in Paul Harley’s direction, and resumed his seat.

Harley had suffered this odd little interlude in silence but now:

“Mr. Camber,” he said, rapidly, “I sent you a message by your Chinese servant to the effect that the police would be here within ten minutes to arrest you.”

“You did, sir,” replied Colin Camber, drawing

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212 toward him a piece of newspaper upon which rested a dwindling mound of shag. “This is most disturbing, of course. But since I have not rendered myself amenable to the law, it leaves me moderately unmoved. Upon your second point, Mr. Harley, I shall beg you, to enlarge. You tell me that Don Juan Menendez is dead?”

He had begun to fill his corn-cob as he spoke the words, but from where I sat I could just see his face, so that although his voice was well controlled, the gleam in his eyes was unmistakable.

“He was shot through the head shortly after midnight.”

“What?”

Colin Camber dropped the corn-cob and stood up again, the light of a dawning comprehension in his eyes.

“Do you mean that he was murdered?”

“I do.”

“Good God,” whispered Camber, “at last I understand.”

“That is why we are here, Mr. Camber, and that is why the police will be here at any moment.”

Colin Camber stood erect, one hand resting upon the desk.

“So this was the meaning of the shot which we heard in the night,” he said, slowly.

Crossing the room, he closed and locked the study door, then, returning, he sat down once more, entirely master of himself. Frowning slightly he looked from Harley in my direction, and then back again at Harley.

“Gentlemen,” he resumed, “I appreciate the urgency of my danger. Preposterous though I know it to be, nevertheless it is perhaps no more than natural that suspicion should fall upon me.”

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Rh He was evidently thinking rapidly. His manner had grown quite cool, and I could see that he had focussed his keen brain upon the abyss which he perceived to lie in his path.

“Before I commit myself to any statements which might be used as evidence,” he said, “doubtless, Mr. Harley, you will inform me of your exact standpoint in this matter. Do you represent the late Colonel Menendez, do you represent the law, or may I regard you as a perfectly impartial enquirer?”

“You may regard me, Mr. Camber, as one to whom nothing but the truth is of the slightest interest. I was requested by the late Colonel Menendez to visit Cray’s Folly.”

“Professionally?”

“To endeavour to trace the origin of certain occurrences which had led him to believe his life to be in danger.”

Harley paused, staring hard at Colin Camber.

“Since I recognize myself to be standing in the position of a suspect,” said the latter, “it is perhaps unfair to request you to acquaint me with the nature of these occurrences?”

“The one, sir,” replied Paul Harley, “which most intimately concerns yourself is this: Almost exactly a month ago the wing of a bat was nailed to the door of Cray’s Folly.”

“What?” exclaimed Colin Camber, leaning forward eagerly—“the wing of a bat? What kind of bat?”

“Of a South American Vampire Bat.”

The effect of those words was curious. If any doubt respecting Camber’s innocence had remained with me at this time I think his expression as he leaned forward across the desk must certainly have removed it. That

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214 the man was intellectually unusual, and intensely difficult to understand, must have been apparent to the most superficial observer, but I found it hard to believe that these moods of his were simulated. At the words “A South American Vampire Bat” the enthusiasm of the specialist leapt into his eyes. Personal danger was forgotten. Harley had trenched upon his particular territory, and I knew that if Colin Camber had actually killed Colonel Menendez, then it had been the act of a maniac. No man newly come from so bloody a deed could have acted as Camber acted now.

“It is the death-sign of Voodoo!” he exclaimed, excitedly.

Yet again he arose, and crossing to one of the many cabinets which were in the room, he pulled open a drawer and took out a shallow tray.

My friend was watching him intently, and from the expression upon his bronzed face I could deduce the fact that in Colin Camber he had met the supreme puzzle of his career. As Camber stood there, holding up an object which he had taken from the tray, whilst Paul Harley sat staring at him, I thought the scene was one transcending the grotesque. Here was the suspected man triumphantly producing evidence to hang himself.

Between his finger and thumb Camber held the wing of a bat!

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 CHAPTER XXII COLIN CAMBER’S SECRET

BROUGHT this bat wing from Haiti,” he explained, replacing it in the tray. “It was found beneath the pillow of a negro missionary who had died mysteriously during the night.”

He returned the tray to the drawer, closed the latter, and, standing erect, raised clenched hands above his head.

“With no thought of blasphemy,” he said, “but with reverence, I thank God from the bottom of my heart that Juan Menendez is dead.”

He reseated himself, whilst Harley regarded him silently, then:

“‘The evil that men do lives after them,’” he murmured. He rested his chin upon his hand. “A bat wing,” he continued, musingly, “a bat wing was nailed to Menendez’s door.” He stared across at Harley. “Am I to believe, sir, that this was the clue which led you to the Guest House?”

Paul Harley nodded.

“It was.”

“I understand. I must therefore take no more excursions into my special subject, but must endeavour to regard the matter from the point of view of the enquiry. Am I to assume that Menendez was acquainted with the significance of this token?”

“He had seen it employed in the West Indies.”

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216 “Ah, the black-hearted devil! But I fear I am involving myself more deeply in suspicion. Perhaps, Mr. Harley, the ends of justice would be better served if you were to question me, and I to confine myself to answering you.”

“Very well,” Harley agreed: “when and where did you meet the late Colonel Menendez?”

“I never met him in my life.”

“Do you mean that you had never spoken to him?”

“Never.”

“Hm. Tell me, Mr. Camber, where were you at twelve o’clock last night?”

“Here, writing.”

“And where was Ah Tsong?”

“Ah Tsong?” Colin Camber stared uncomprehendingly. “Ah Tsong was in bed.”

“Oh. Did anything disturb you?”

“Yes, the sound of a rifle shot.”

“You knew it for a rifle shot?”

“It was unmistakable.”

“What did you do?”

“I was in the midst of a most important passage, and I should probably have taken no steps in the matter but that Ah Tsong knocked upon the study door, to inform me that my wife had been awakened by the sound of the shot. She is somewhat nervous and had rung for Ah Tsong, asking him to see if all were well with me.”

“Do I understand that she imagined the sound to have come from this room?”

“When we are newly awakened from sleep, Mr. Harley, we retain only an imperfect impression of that which awakened us.”

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