“Simple enough in themselves,” replied Harley. “Someone broke into the house one night.” “Broke into the house?” “Undoubtedly.” “But this was never reported to us.” “Possibly not, but someone broke in, nevertheless. Secondly, Colonel Menendez had detected someone lurking about the lawns, and thirdly, the wing of a bat was nailed to the main door.” Inspector Aylesbury lowered his eyebrows and concentrated a frowning glance upon the speaker. “Of course, sir,” he said, “I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but you are not by any chance trying to be funny at a time like this?” “My sense of humour has failed me entirely,” replied Harley. “I am merely stating bald facts in reply to your questions.” “Oh, I see.” The Inspector cleared his throat. “Someone broke into Cray’s Folly, then, a fact which was not reported to me, a suspicious loiterer was seen in the grounds, again not reported, and someone played a silly practical joke by nailing the wing of a bat, you say, to the door. Might I ask, Mr. Harley, why you mention this matter? The other things are serious, but why you should mention the trick of some mischievous boy at a time like this I can’t imagine.” “No,” said Harley, wearily, “it does sound absurd, Inspector; I quite appreciate the fact. But, you see, Colonel Menendez regarded it as the most significant episode of them all.” “What! The bat wing nailed on the door?” “The bat wing, decidedly. He believed it to be the token of a negro secret society which had determined upon his death, hence my enquiries regarding coloured men in the neighbourhood. Do you understand, Inspector?” Inspector Aylesbury took a large handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. Replacing the handkerchief he cleared his throat, and: “Am I to understand,” he enquired, “that the late Colonel Menendez had expected to be attacked?” “You may understand that,” replied Harley. “It explains my presence in the house.” “Oh,” said the Inspector, “I see. It looks as though he might have done better if he had applied to me.” Paul Harley glanced across in my direction and smiled grimly. “As I had predicted, Knox,” he murmured, “my Waterloo.” “What’s that you say about Waterloo, Mr. Harley?” demanded the Inspector. “Nothing germane to the case,” replied Harley. “It was a reference to a battle, not to a railway station.” Inspector Aylesbury stared at him dully. “You quite understand that you are giving evidence?” he said. “It were impossible not to appreciate the fact.” “Very well, then. The late Colonel Menendez thought he was in danger from negroes. Why did he think that?” “He was a retired West Indian planter,” replied Harley, patiently, “and he was under the impression that he had offended a powerful native society, and that for many years their vengeance had pursued him. Attempts to assassinate him had already taken place in Cuba and in the United States.” “What sort of attempts?”