promises to be the strangest case you have ever handled.”
“Promises?” Paul Harley laughed shortly. “It is the strangest case, Knox. It is a case of wheels within wheels, of mystery crowning mystery. Have you studied our host?”
“Closely.”
“And what conclusion have you formed?”
“None at the moment; but I think one is slowly crystalizing.”
“Hm,” muttered Harley, as we paced slowly on amid the rose trees. “Of one thing I am satisfied.”
“What is that?”
“That Colonel Menendez is not afraid of Bat Wing, whoever or whatever Bat Wing may be.”
“Not afraid?”
“Certainly he is not afraid, Knox. He has possibly been afraid in the past, but now he is resigned.”
“Resigned to what?”
“Resigned to death!”
“Good God, Harley, you are right!” I cried. “You are right! I saw it in his eyes as we left the library.”
Harley stopped and turned to me sharply.
“You saw this in the Colonel’s eyes?” he challenged.
“I did.”
“Which corroborates my theory,” he said, softly; “for I had seen it elsewhere.”
“Where do you mean, Harley?”
“In the face of Madame de Stämer.”
“What?”
“Knox”—Harley rested his hand upon my arm and looked about him cautiously—“she knows.”
“But knows what?”
“That is the question which we are here to answer,
