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.
