We discussed indifferent matters for a while, sipping this wonderful curaçao of our host’s. The effect created by the Colonel’s story faded entirely, and when, the latter being unable to conceal his drowsiness, Harley stood up, I took the hint with gratitude; for at that moment I did not feel in the mood to discuss serious business or indeed business of any kind. “Gentlemen,” said the Colonel, also rising, in spite of our protests, “I will observe your wishes. My guests’ wishes are mine. We will meet the ladies for tea on the terrace.” Harley and I walked out into the garden together, our courteous host standing in the open window, and bowing in that exaggerated fashion which in another might have been ridiculous but which was possible in Colonel Menendez, because of the peculiar grace of deportment which was his. As we descended the steps I turned and glanced back, I know not why. But the impression which I derived of the Colonel’s face as he stood there in the shadow of the veranda was one I can never forget. His expression had changed utterly, or so it seemed to me. He no longer resembled Velasquez’ haughty cavalier; gone, too, was the debonnaire bearing, I turned my head aside swiftly, hoping that he had not detected my backward glance. I felt that I had violated hospitality. I felt that I had seen what I should not have seen. And the result was to bring about that which no story of West Indian magic could ever have wrought in my mind. A dreadful, cold premonition claimed me, a premonition that this was a doomed man. The look which I had detected upon his face was an indefinable, an indescribable look; but I had seen it in the eyes of one who had been bitten by a poisonous reptile and who knew his hours to be numbered. It was uncanny, unnerving; and whereas at first the atmosphere of Colonel Menendez’s home had seemed to be laden with prosperous security, now that sense of ease and restfulness was gone--and gone for ever. “Harley,” I said, speaking almost at random, “this promises to be the strangest case you have ever handled.” “Promises?” Paul Harley laughed shortly. “It _is_ the strangest case, Knox. It is a case of wheels within wheels, of mystery crowning mystery. Have you studied our host?” “Closely.” “And what conclusion have you formed?” “None at the moment; but I think one is slowly crystalizing.” “Hm,” muttered Harley, as we paced slowly on amid the rose trees. “Of one thing I am satisfied.” “What is that?” “That Colonel Menendez is not afraid of Bat Wing, whoever or whatever Bat Wing may be.” “Not afraid?” “Certainly he is not afraid, Knox. He has possibly been afraid in the past, but now he is resigned.” “Resigned to what?” “Resigned to death!” “Good God, Harley, you are right!” I cried. “You are right! I saw it in his eyes as we left the library.” Harley stopped and turned to me sharply. “You saw this in the Colonel’s eyes?” he challenged. “I did.”