“Not immediately. Permit me to say, Mr. Harley, that the nature of your questions surprises me. At the moment I fail to see their bearing upon the main issue. He returned and reported to my wife that I was writing, and she then requested him to bring her a glass of milk. Accordingly, he came down again, and going out into the kitchen, executed this order.” “Ah. He would have to light a candle for that purpose, I suppose?” “A candle, or a lamp,” replied Colin Camber, staring at Paul Harley. Then, his expression altering: “Of course!” he cried. “You saw the light from Cray’s Folly? I understand at last.” We were silent for a while, until: “How long a time elapsed between the firing of the shot and Ah Tsong’s knocking at the study door?” asked Harley. “I could not answer definitely. I was absorbed in my work. But probably only a minute or two.” “Was the sound a loud one?” “Fairly loud. And very startling, of course, in the silence of the night.” “The shot, then, was fired from somewhere quite near the house?” “I presume so.” “But you thought no more about the matter?” “Frankly, I had forgotten it. You see, the neighbourhood is rich with game; it might have been a poacher.” “Quite,” murmured Harley, but his face was very stern. “I wonder if you fully realize the danger of your position, Mr. Camber?” “Believe me,” was the reply, “I can anticipate almost every question which I shall be called upon to answer.” Paul Harley stared at him in a way which told me that he was comparing his features line for line with the etching of Edgar Allen Poe which hung in his office in Chancery Lane, and: “I do believe you,” he replied, “and I am wondering if you are in a position to clear yourself?” “On the contrary,” Camber assured him, “I am only waiting to hear that Juan Menendez was shot in the grounds of Cray’s Folly, and not within the house, to propose to you that unless the real assassin be discovered, I shall quite possibly pay the penalty of his crime.” “He was shot in the Tudor garden,” replied Harley, “within sight of your windows.” “Ah!” Colin Camber resumed the task of stuffing shag into his corn-cob. “Then if it would interest you, Mr. Harley, I will briefly outline the case against myself. I had never troubled to disguise the fact that I hated Menendez. Many witnesses can be called to testify to this. He was in Cuba when I was in Cuba, and evidence is doubtless obtainable to show that we stayed at the same hotels in various cities of the United States prior to my coming to England and leasing the Guest House. Finally, he became my neighbour in Surrey.” He carefully lighted his pipe, whilst Harley and I watched him silently, then: