“And to what conclusion have you come?” asked Colonel Menendez, eagerly.
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?”
