“In several particulars,” said he, “I find my information to be incomplete.”
He consulted the back of an envelope, upon which, I presumed during the afternoon, he had made a number of pencilled notes.
“For instance,” he continued, “your detection of someone watching the house, and subsequently of someone forcing an entrance, had no visible association with the presence of the bat wing attached to your front door?”
“No,” replied the Colonel, slowly, “these episodes took place a month ago.”
“Exactly a month ago?”
“They took place immediately before the last full moon.”
“Ah, before the full moon. And because you associate the activities of Voodoo with the full moon, you believe that the old menace has again become active?”
The Colonel nodded emphatically. He was busily engaged in rolling one of his eternal cigarettes.
“This belief of yours was recently confirmed by the discovery of the bat wing?”
“I no longer doubted,” said Colonel Menendez, shrugging his shoulders. “How could I?”
“Quite so,” murmured Harley, absently, and evidently pursuing some private train of thought. “And now, I take it that your suspicions, if expressed in words would amount to this: During your last visit to Cuba you (a) either killed some high priest of Voodoo, or (b) seriously injured him? Assuming the first theory to be the correct one, your death was determined upon by the sect over which he had formerly presided. Assuming the second to be accurate, however, it is presumably the man himself for whom we must look. Now, Colonel
