“Yes, a quaint old spot,” said Camber. “I thought at one time, because of the name of the house, that it might have been part of a monastery or convent. This was not the case, however. It derives its name from a certain Sir Jaspar Guest, who flourished, I believe, under King Charles of merry memory.” “Nevertheless,” I added, “the Guest House is a charming survival of more spacious days.” “True,” returned Colin Camber, gravely. “Here it is possible to lead one’s own life, away from the noisy world,” he sighed again wearily. “Yes, I shall regret leaving the Guest House.” “What! You are leaving?” “I am leaving as soon as I can find another residence, suited both to my requirements and to my slender purse. But these domestic affairs can be of no possible interest to you. I take it, Mr. Knox, that you will grant my wife and myself the pleasure of your company at lunch?” “Many thanks,” I replied, “but really I must return to Cray’s Folly.” As I spoke the words I had moved a little ahead at a point where the path was overgrown by a rose bush, for the garden was somewhat neglected. “You will quite understand,” I said, and turned. Never can I forget the spectacle which I beheld. Colin Camber’s peculiarly pale complexion had assumed a truly ghastly pallor, and he stood with tightly clenched hands, glaring at me almost insanely. “Mr. Camber,” I cried, with concern, “are you unwell?” He moistened his dry lips, and: “You are returning--to Cray’s Folly?” he said, speaking, it seemed, with difficulty. “I am, sir. I am staying with Colonel Menendez.” “Ah!” He clutched the collar of his pyjama jacket and wrenched so strongly that the button was torn off. His passion was incredible, insane. The power of speech had almost left him. “You are a guest of--of Devil Menendez,” he whispered, and the speaking of the name seemed almost to choke him. “Of--Devil Menendez. You--you--are a spy. You have stolen my hospitality--you have obtained access to my house under false pretences. God! if I had known!” “Mr. Camber,” I said, sternly, and realized that I, too, had clenched my fists, for the man’s language was grossly insulting, “you forget yourself.” “Perhaps I do,” he muttered, thickly; “and therefore”--he raised a quivering forefinger--“go! If you have any spark of compassion in your breast, go! Leave my house.” Nostrils dilated, he stood with that quivering finger outstretched, and now having become as speechless as he, I turned and walked rapidly up to the house. “Ah Tsong! Ah Tsong!” came a cry from behind me in tones which I can only describe as hysterical--“Mr. Knox’s hat and stick. Quickly.” As I walked in past the study door the Chinaman came to meet me, holding my hat and cane. I took them from him without a word, and, the door being held open by Ah Tsong, walked out on to the road.