“I am, Knox. I can only suppose that he proved to be immune. You recall his statement that he made an almost miraculous recovery from the fever which attacked him after his visit to the Black Belt? This would seem to point to the fact that he possesses that rare type of constitution which almost defies organisms deadly to ordinary men.” “I see. Hence the dagger and the rifle?” “So it would appear.” “But, Harley,” I cried, “what appalling crime can the man have committed to call down upon his head a vengeance which has survived for so many years?” Paul Harley shrugged his shoulders in a whimsical imitation of the Spaniard. “I doubt if the feud dates any earlier,” he replied, “than the time of Menendez’s last return to Cuba. On that occasion he evidently killed the High Priest of Voodoo.” I uttered an exclamation of scorn. “My dear Harley,” I said, “the whole thing is too utterly fantastic. I begin to believe again that we are dealing with a madman.” Harley glanced down at the wing of the bat. “We shall see,” he murmured. “Even if the only result of our visit is to make the acquaintance of the Colonel’s household our time will not have been wasted.” “No,” said I, “that is true enough. I am looking forward to meeting Madame de Stämer--” “The Colonel’s invalid cousin,” added Harley, tonelessly. “And her companion, Miss Beverley.” “Quite so. Nor must we forget the Spanish butler, and the Colonel himself, whose acquaintance I am extremely anxious to renew.” “The whole thing is wildly bizarre, Harley.” “My dear Knox,” he replied, stretching himself luxuriously in the long lounge chair, “the most commonplace life hovers on the edge of the bizarre. But those of us who overstep the border become preposterous in the eyes of those who have never done so. This is not because the unusual is necessarily the untrue, but because writers of fiction have claimed the unusual as their particular province, and in doing so have divorced it from fact in the public eye. Thus I, myself, am a myth, and so are you, Knox!” He raised his hand and pointed to the doorway communicating with the office. “We owe our mythological existence to that American genius whose portrait hangs beside the Burmese cabinet and who indiscreetly created the character of C. Auguste Dupin. The doings of this amateur investigator were chronicled by an admirer, you may remember, since when no private detective has been allowed to exist outside the pages of fiction. My most trivial habits confirm my unreality.