“Mr. Harley,” he said, speaking in a very low tone which scorned to accentuate the beauty of his voice, “I have suffered much in the quest of truth. Suffering is the gate beyond which we find compassion. Perhaps you have thought my foregoing remarks frivolous, in view of the fact that last night a soul was sent to its reckoning almost at my doors. I revere the truth, however, above all lesser laws and above all expediency. I do not, and I cannot, regret the end of the man Menendez. But for three reasons I should regret to pay the penalty of a crime which I did not commit, These reasons are--one,” he ticked them off upon his delicate fingers--“It would be bitter to know that Devil Menendez even in death had injured me; two--My work in the world, which is unfinished; and, three--My wife.” I watched and listened, almost awed by the strangeness of the man who sat before me. His three reasons were illuminating. A casual observer might have regarded Colin Camber as a monument of selfishness. But it was evident to me, and I knew it must be evident to Paul Harley, that his egotism was quite selfless. To a natural human resentment and a pathetic love for his wife he had added, as an equal clause, the claim of the world upon his genius. “I have heard you,” said Paul Harley, quietly, “and you have led me to the most important point of all.” “What point is that, Mr. Harley?” “You have referred to your recent lapse from abstemiousness. Excuse me if I discuss personal matters. This you ascribed to domestic troubles, or so Mr. Knox has informed me. You have also referred to your undisguised hatred of the late Colonel Juan Menendez. I am going to ask you, Mr. Camber, to tell me quite frankly what was the nature of those domestic troubles, and what had caused this hatred which survives even the death of its object?” Colin Camber stood up, angular, untidy, but a figure of great dignity. “Mr. Harley,” he replied, “I cannot answer your questions.” Paul Harley inclined his head gravely. “May I suggest,” he said, “that you will be called upon to do so under circumstances which will brook no denial.” Colin Camber watched him unflinchingly. “‘The fate of every man is hung around his neck,’” he replied. “Yet, in this secret history which you refuse to divulge, and which therefore must count against you, the truth may lie which exculpates you.” “It may be so. But my determination remains unaltered.” “Very well,” answered Paul Harley, quietly, but I could see that he was exercising a tremendous restraint upon himself. “I respect your decision, but you have given me a giant’s task, and for this I cannot thank you, Mr. Camber.” I heard a car pulled up in the road outside the Guest House. Colin Camber clenched his hands and sat down again in the carved chair. “The opportunity has passed,” said Harley. “The police are here.” CHAPTER XXIII INSPECTOR AYLESBURY CROSS-EXAMINES “Oh, I see,” said Inspector Aylesbury, “a little private confab, eh?”