“No,” replied the Colonel, slowly, “these episodes took place a month ago.” “Exactly a month ago?” “They took place immediately before the last full moon.” “Ah, before the full moon. And because you associate the activities of Voodoo with the full moon, you believe that the old menace has again become active?” The Colonel nodded emphatically. He was busily engaged in rolling one of his eternal cigarettes. “This belief of yours was recently confirmed by the discovery of the bat wing?” “I no longer doubted,” said Colonel Menendez, shrugging his shoulders. “How could I?” “Quite so,” murmured Harley, absently, and evidently pursuing some private train of thought. “And now, I take it that your suspicions, if expressed in words would amount to this: During your last visit to Cuba you (_a_) either killed some high priest of Voodoo, or (_b_) seriously injured him? Assuming the first theory to be the correct one, your death was determined upon by the sect over which he had formerly presided. Assuming the second to be accurate, however, it is presumably the man himself for whom we must look. Now, Colonel Menendez, kindly inform me if you recall the name of this man?” “I recall it very well,” replied the Colonel. “His name was M’kombo, and he was a Benin negro.” “Assuming that he is still alive, what, roughly, would his age be to-day?” The Colonel seemed to meditate, pushing a box of long Martinique cigars across the table in my direction. “He would be an old man,” he pronounced. “I, myself, am fifty-two, and I should say that M’kombo if alive to-day would be nearer to seventy than sixty.” “Ah,” murmured Harley, “and did he speak English?” “A few words, I believe.” Paul Harley fixed his gaze upon the dark, aquiline face. “In short,” he said, “do you really suspect that it was M’kombo whose shadow you saw upon the lawn, who a month ago made a midnight entrance into Cray’s Folly, and who recently pinned a bat wing to the door?” Colonel Menendez seemed somewhat taken aback by this direct question. “I cannot believe it,” he confessed. “Do you believe that this order or religion of Voodooism has any existence outside those places where African negroes or descendents of negroes are settled?” “I should not have been prepared to believe it, Mr. Harley, prior to my experiences in Washington and elsewhere.” “Then you do believe that there are representatives of this cult to be met with in Europe and America?” “I should have been prepared to believe it possible in America, for in America there are many negroes, but in England----” Again he shrugged his shoulders. “I would remind you,” said Harley, quietly, “that there are also quite a number of negroes in England. If you seriously believe Voodoo to follow negro migration, I can see no objection to assuming it to be a universal cult.” “Such an idea is incredible.”