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! CHAPTER XXII COLIN CAMBER’S SECRET “I 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.” “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.” “True,” replied Paul Harley; “and did Ah Tsong return to his room?”