“What had you learned?” asked Harley, whose interest in the narrative was displayed by the fact that his pipe had long since gone out.
“Vaguely, vaguely, you understand, for there was little light, I had seen the face of the man. He wore some kind of black cloak doubtless to conceal his movements. His silhouette resembled that of a bat. But, gentlemen, he was neither a negro nor even a half-caste; he was of the white races, to that I could swear.”
Colonel Menendez lighted the cigarette which he had been busily rolling, and fixed his dark eyes upon Harley.
“You puzzle me, sir,” said the latter. “Do you wish me to believe that this cult of Voodoo claims European or American devotees?”
“I wish you to believe,” returned the Colonel, “that although as the result of the alarm which I gave the hotel was searched and the Washington police exerted themselves to the utmost, no trace was ever found of the man who had tried to murder me, except”—he extended a long, yellow forefinger, and pointed to the wing of the bat lying upon Harley’s table—“a bat wing was found pinned to my bedroom door.”
Silence fell for a while; an impressive silence. Truly this was the strangest story to which I had ever listened.
“How long ago was that?” asked Harley.
“Only two years ago. At about the time that the great war terminated. I came to Europe and believed that at last I had found security. I lived for a time in London amidst a refreshing peace that was new to me. Then, chancing to hear of a property in Surrey which was available, I leased it for a period of years, installing—is it correct?—my cousin, Madame de Stämer, as housekeeper. Madame, alas, is an invalid,
