He bent forward, resting his elbows upon his knees, a pose which he frequently adopted. He was smoking a cigar, but his total absorption in the topic under discussion was revealed by the fact that from a pocket in his dinner jacket he had taken out a portion of tobacco, had laid it in a slip of rice paper, and was busily rolling one of his eternal cigarettes. “I might be enabled to come to one,” replied Harley, “if you would answer a very simple question.” “What is this question?” “It is this--Have you any idea who nailed the bat’s wing to your door?” Colonel Menendez’s eyes opened very widely, and his face became more aquiline than ever. “You have heard my story, Mr. Harley,” he replied, softly. “If I know the explanation, why do I come to you?” Paul Harley puffed at his pipe. His expression did not alter in the slightest. “I merely wondered if your suspicions tended in the direction of Mr. Colin Camber,” he said. “Colin Camber!” As the Colonel spoke the name either I became victim of a strange delusion or his face was momentarily convulsed. If my senses served me aright then his pronouncing of the words “Colin Camber” occasioned him positive agony. He clutched the arms of his chair, striving, I thought, to retain composure, and in this he succeeded, for when he spoke again his voice was quite normal. “Have you any particular reason for your remark, Mr. Harley?” “I have a reason,” replied Paul Harley, “but don’t misunderstand me. I suggest nothing against Mr. Camber. I should be glad, however, to know if you are acquainted with him?” “We have never met.” “You possibly know him by repute?” “I have heard of him, Mr. Harley. But to be perfectly frank, I have little in common with citizens of the United States.” A note of arrogance, which at times crept into his high, thin voice, became perceptible now, and the aristocratic, aquiline face looked very supercilious. How the conversation would have developed I know not, but at this moment Pedro entered and delivered a message in Spanish to the Colonel, whereupon the latter arose and with very profuse apologies begged permission to leave us for a few moments. When he had retired: “I am going upstairs to write a letter, Knox,” said Paul Harley. “Carry on with your old duties to-day, your new ones do not commence until to-morrow.” With that he laughed and walked out of the dining room, leaving me wondering whether to be grateful or annoyed. However, it did not take me long to find my way to the drawing room where the two ladies were seated side by side upon a settee, Madame’s chair having been wheeled into a corner. “Ah, Mr. Knox,” exclaimed Madame as I entered, “have the others deserted, then?” “Scarcely deserted, I think. They are merely straggling.” “Absent without leave,” murmured Val Beverley.