“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.” “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. 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.