“There are, Mr. Harley, but they belong to things so mystic and far away from ordinary crime that I fear you will think me,” he shrugged his great shoulders, “a man haunted by strange superstitions. Do you say ‘haunted?’ Good. You understand. I should tell you, then, that although of pure Spanish blood, I was born in Cuba. The greater part of my life has been spent in the West Indies, where prior to ‘98 I held an appointment under the Spanish Government. I have property, not only in Cuba, but in some of the smaller islands which formerly were Spanish, and I shall not conceal from you that during the latter years of my administration I incurred the enmity of a section of the population. Do I make myself clear?” Paul Harley nodded and exchanged a swift glance with me. I formed a rapid mental picture of native life under the governorship of Colonel Juan Menendez and I began to consider his story from a new viewpoint. Seemingly rendered restless by his reflections, he stood up and began to pace the floor, a tall but curiously graceful figure. I noticed the bulldog tenacity of his chin, the intense pride in his bearing, and I wondered what kind of menace had induced him to seek the aid of Paul Harley; for whatever his failings might be, and I could guess at the nature of several of them, that this thin-lipped Spanish soldier knew the meaning of fear I was not prepared to believe. “Before you proceed further, Colonel Menendez,” said Harley, “might I ask when you left Cuba?” “Some three years ago,” was his reply. “Because--” he hesitated curiously--“of health motives, I leased a property in England, believing that here I should find peace.” “In other words, you were afraid of something or someone in Cuba?” Colonel Menendez turned in a flash, glaring down at the speaker. “I never feared any man in my life, Mr. Harley,” he said, coldly. “Then why are you here?” The Colonel placed the stump of his first cigarette in an ash tray and lighted that which he had newly made. “It is true,” he admitted. “Forgive me. Yet what I said was that I never feared any man.” He stood squarely in front of the Burmese cabinet, resting one hand upon his hip. Then he added a remark which surprised me. “Do you know anything of Voodoo?” he asked. Paul Harley took his pipe from between his teeth and stared at the speaker silently for a moment. “Voodoo?” he echoed. “You mean negro magic?” “Exactly.” “My studies have certainly not embraced it,” replied Harley, quietly, “nor has it hitherto come within my experience. But since I have lived much in the East, I am prepared to learn that Voodoo may not be a negligible quantity. There are forces at work in India which we in England improperly understand. The same may be true of Cuba.” “The same _is_ true of Cuba.” Colonel Menendez glared almost fiercely across the room at Paul Harley. “And do I understand,” asked the latter, “that the danger which you believe to threaten you is associated with Cuba?”