“Menendez had the bat wing nailed to the door of his house,” he continued. “He believed himself to be in danger, and associated this sign with the source of his danger. Excepting himself and possibly certain other members of his household it is improbable that any one else in Surrey understands the significance of the token save myself. The unholy rites of Voodoo are a closed book to the Western nations. I have opened that book, Mr. Harley. The powers of the Obeah man, and especially of the arch-magician known and dreaded by every negro as ‘Bat Wing,’ are familiar to me. Since I was alone at the time that the shot was fired, and for some few minutes afterward, and since the Tudor garden of Cray’s Folly is within easy range of the Guest House, to fail to place me under arrest would be an act of sheer stupidity.” He spoke the words with a sort of triumph. Like the fakir, he possessed the art of spiritual detachment, which is an attribute of genius. From an intellectual eminence he was surveying his own peril. Colin Camber in the flesh had ceased to exist; he was merely a pawn in a fascinating game. Paul Harley glanced at his watch. “Mr. Camber,” he said, “I have just sustained the most crushing defeat of my career. The man who had summoned me to his aid was killed almost before my eyes. One thing I must do or accept professional oblivion.” “I understand.” Colin Camber nodded. “Apprehend his murderer?” “Ultimately, yes. But, firstly, I must see that to the assassination of Colonel Menendez a judicial murder is not added.” “You mean--?” asked Camber, eagerly. “I mean that if you killed Menendez, you are a madman, and I have formed the opinion during our brief conversation that you are brilliantly sane.” Colin Camber rose and bowed in that old-world fashion which was his. “I am obliged to you, Mr. Harley,” he replied. “But has Mr. Knox informed you of my bibulous habits?” Paul Harley nodded. “They will, of course, be ascribed,” continued Camber, “and there are many suitable analogies, to deliberate contemplation of a murderous deed. I would remind you that chronic alcoholism is a recognized form, of insanity.” His mood changed again, and sighing wearily, he lay back in the chair. Over his pale face crept an expression which I knew, instinctively, to mean that he was thinking of his wife.