 CHAPTER VII. AT THE LAVENDER ARMS. In certain moods Paul Harley was impossible as a companion, and I, who knew him well, had learned to leave him to his own devices at such times. These moods invariably corresponded with his meeting some problem to the heart of which the lands of his keen wit failed to penetrate. His humor might not display itself in the spoken word, he merely became oblivious of everything and everybody around him. People might talk to him and he scarce noted their presence. Familiar faces appear and he would see them not. Outwardly he remained the observant Harley who could see further into a mystery than any other in England, but his observation was entirely introspective. Although he moved amid the hustle of life, he was spiritually alone, communing with the solitude which dwells in every man's heart. Presently then, as we came to the lake at the foot of the sloping lawns, where waterlilies were growing and quite a number of swans had their habitation, I detected the fact that I had ceased to exist so far as Harley was concerned. Knowing this mood of old, I pursued my way alone, pressing on across the valley and making for a swing-gate which seemed to open upon a public footpath. Coming to this gate I turned and looked back. Paul Harley was standing where I had left him by the edge of the lake, staring as if hypnotized at the slowly moving swans. But I would have been prepared to wager that he saw neither swans nor lake, but mentally was far from the spot, deep in some complex maze of reflection through which no ordinary mind could hope to follow him. I glanced at my watch and found that it was but little after two o'clock. Luncheon at Craze Folly was early. I therefore had some time upon my hands and I determined to employ it in exploring part of the neighborhood. Interestingly I filled and lighted my pipe and strolled leisurely along the footpath, enjoying the beauty of the afternoon and admiring the magnificent timber which grew upon the southerly slopes of the valley. Lark sang high above me and the air was fragrant with those wonderful earthy scents which belonged to an English countryside. A herd of very fine Jersey cattle presently claimed inspection, and a little farther on I found myself upon a high road where a brown-faced fellow seated aloft upon a hay cart cheerily gave me good day as I passed. Quite at random I turned to the left and followed the road, so that presently I found myself in a very small village, the principal building of which was a very small inn called the Lavender Arms. Colonel Menendez's Curacao, combined with the heat of the day, had made me thirsty, for which reason I stepped into the bar parlor determined to sample the local ale. I was served by the landlady, a neat, round, red little person, and as she retired, having placed a foam-capped mug upon the counter, her glance rested for a moment upon the only other occupant of the room, a man seated in an arm-chair immediately to the right of the door. A glass of whiskey stood on the window-ledge at his elbow, and that it was by no means the first which he had imbibed his appearance seemed to indicate. Having tasted the cool contents of my mug I leaned back against the counter and looked at this person curiously. He was apparently of about medium height but of a somewhat fragile appearance. He was dressed like a country gentleman and a stick and soft hat lay upon the ledge near his glass. But the thing about him which had immediately arrested my attention was his really extraordinary resemblance to Paul Harley's engraving of Edgar Allan Poe. I wondered at first if Harley's frequent references to the eccentric American genius, to whom he accorded a sort of hero-worship, were responsible for my imagining a close resemblance where only a slight one existed. But inspection of that strange, dark face convinced me of the fact that my first impression had been a true one. Perhaps in my curiosity I stared rather rudely. "'You will pardon me, sir,' said the stranger, and I was startled to note that he spoke with a faint American accent. But are you a literary man?' As I had judged to be the case he was slightly bemused but by no means drunk, and although his question was abrupt it was spoken civilly enough. "'Journalism is one of the several occupations in which I have failed,' I replied lightly. "'You are not a fiction writer? I lack the imagination necessary for that craft, sir.' The other wagged his head slowly and took a drink of whiskey. Nevertheless, he said, and raised his finger solemnly, you were thinking that I resembled Edgar Allen Poe.' "'Good heavens!' I exclaimed, for the man had really amazed me. You clearly resemble him in more ways than one. I must really ask you to inform me how you deduce such a fact from a mere glance of mine.' "'I will tell you, sir,' he replied, but first I must replenish my glass, and I should be honoured if you would permit me to replenish yours. "'Thanks very much,' I said, but I would rather you excused me.' "'As you wish, sir,' replied the American, with grave courtesy, as you wish.' He stepped up to the counter and wrapped upon it with a half-crown until the landlady reappeared. She treated me to a pathetic glance but refilled the empty glass. My American acquaintance, having returned to his seat and having added a very little water to the whiskey, went on. "'Now, sir,' he said, "'my name is Cullen Camber, formerly of Richmond, Virginia, United States of America, but now of the Guest House, Surrey, England, at your service. Taking my cue for Mr. Camber's gloomy but lofty manner, I bowed formally and mentioned my name. "'I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Knox,' he assured me. "'And now, sir, to answer your question. When you came in a few moments ago, you glanced at me. Your eyes did not open widely, as is the case when one recognises, or thinks one recognises an acquaintance. They narrowed. This indicated retrospection. For a moment they turned aside. You were focusing a fugitive idea, a memory. You captured it. You looked at me again, and your successive glances red as follows. The hair worn uncommonly long. The mathematical brow, the eyes of a poet. The slight mustache. The small mouth. Weak chin. The glass at his elbow. The resemblance is complete. Knowing how complete it is myself, sir, I ventured to test my theory, and it proved to be sound. Now, as Mr. Cullen Camber had thus spoken in the serious manner of a slightly drunken man, I had formed the opinion that I stood in the presence of a very singular character. Here was that seeming mezzaliance which not infrequently begets genius. A powerful and original mind allied to a weak will. I wondered what Mr. Cullen Camber's occupation might be, and somewhat too, I wondered why his name was unfamiliar to me. For that the possessor of that brow and those eyes could fail to make his mark in any profession which he might take up I was unwilling to believe. Your exposition has been very interesting, Mr. Camber, I said. You are a singularly close observer, I perceive. Yes, he replied, I have passed my life in observing the ways of my fellowman, a study which I have pursued in various parts of the world without appreciable benefit to myself. I refer to financial benefit. He contemplated me with a look which had grown suddenly pathetic. I would not have you think, sir, he added, that I am an habitual topper. I have latterly been upset by domestic worries, and, er, he emptied his glass at a draught. Surely, Mr. Knox, you are going to replenish. Whilst you are doing so, would you kindly request Mrs. Wooten to extend the same favour to myself? But at that moment Mrs. Wooten in person appeared behind the counter. Time, please, gentlemen, she said. It is gone half-past two. What! exclaimed Mr. Camber, rising. What is that? You declined to serve me, Mrs. Wooten. Why, not at all, Mr. Camber, answered the landlady, but I can serve no one now. It's after time. You declined to serve me, he muttered, his speech becoming slurred. Am I, then, to be insulted? I cut a glance of entreaty from the landlady. My dear sir, I said, genially, we must bow to the law, I suppose. At least we are better off here than in America. Ah, that is true, agreed Mr. Camber, throwing his head back and speaking the words as though they possess some deep, dramatic significance. Yes, but such laws are an insult to every intelligent man. He sat down again rather heavily, and I stood looking from him to the landlady and wondering what I should do. The matter was decided for me, however, in a way which I could never have foreseen. For, hearing a light footfall upon the step which led to the bar parlor, I turned, and there, almost beside me, stood a wrinkled little Chinaman. He wore a blue suit and a tweed cap. He wore queer, thick sold slippers, and his face was like a smiling mask hewn on a very old ivory. I could scarcely credit the evidence of my senses, since the lavender arms was one of the last places in which I should have looked for a native of China. Mr. Cullen Camber rose again, and fixing his melancholy eyes upon the newcomer. Ah, Tsong! he said in a tone of cold anger. What are you doing here? Quite unmoved, the Chinaman replied. Ningiyochitsa, very soon go back. What do you mean, demanded Mr. Camber? Answer me, hot Tsong, who sent you? Lily Missy! crooned the Chinaman, smiling up into the other's face with a sort of childish entreaty. Lily Missy! Oh! said Mr. Camber, in a changed voice. Oh! He stood very upright for a moment, his gaze set upon the wrinkled Chinese face. Then he looked at Mrs. Wooten and bowed, and looked at me and bowed very stiffly. I must excuse myself, sir, he announced. My wife desires my presence at home. I returned his bow, and as he walked quite steadily toward the door, followed by Ah Tsong, he paused, turned, and said, Mr. Knox, I should esteem it a friendly action if you would spare me an hour of your company before you leave Surrey. My visitors are few. Anyone, anyone will direct you to the guest house. I am persuaded that we have much in common. Good day, sir. He went down the steps, disappearing in company with the Chinaman, and having watched them go, I turned to Mrs. Wooten, the landlady, in silent astonishment. She nodded her head and sighed. The same every day and every evening for months past, she said, I am afraid it's going to be the death of him. Do you mean that Mr. Camber comes here every day in his always fetched by the Chinaman? Twice every day, corrected the landlady, and his poor wife sends here regularly. What a tragedy, I muttered, and such a brilliant man. Ah, said she, busily removing jugs and glasses from the counter. It does seem a terrible thing. Does Mr. Camber live for long in this neighborhood, I venture to inquire? It was about three years ago, sir, that he took the old guest house at Midhattan. I remembered the time well enough because of all the trouble there was about him bringing a Chinaman down here. I can imagine it must have created something of a sensation, I murmured. Is the guest house a large property? Oh, no, sir, only ten rooms and a garden, and it had been vacant for a long time. It belongs to what is called the Crayland Park estate. Mr. Camber, I take it, is a literary man. So I believe, sir. Mrs. Wooten, having cleared the counter, glanced up at the clock and then at me with a cheery but significant smile. I see that it is after time, I said, returning the smile, but the queer people who seem to live hereabouts interest me very much. I can't wonder at that, sir, said the landlady, laughing outright. Chinaman and Spanishmen and what not. If some of the old gentry that lived here before the war could see it, they wouldn't recognize the place of that, I'm sure. Ah, well, said I, pausing at the step. I shall hope to see more of Mr. Camber, and of yourself too, madam, for your ale is excellent. Thank you, sir, I'm sure, said the landlady, much gratified. But as to Mr. Camber, I really doubt if he would know you if you met him again. Not if he was sober, I mean. Really? Oh, it's a fact, believe me. Just in the last six months or so he has started on the rampage-like. But some of the people he has met in here and asked to call upon him have done it, thinking he met it. And they have not been well received, said I, lingering. They have had the door shut in their faces, declared Mrs. Wooten with a certain indignation. He either does not remember what he says or does when he is in drink, or he pretends he doesn't. Oh, dear, it's a funny world. Well, good day, sir. Today, said I, and came out of the lavender arms full of sympathy with the views of the old gentry, as outlined by Mrs. Wooten. For certainly it would seem that this quiet spot in the Surrey Hills had become a rallying ground for peculiar people. CHAPTER VIII. THE CALL OF MACUMBO Of tea upon the veranda of craze folly that afternoon I retained several notable memories. I got into closer touch with my host and hostess without achieving anything like a proper understanding of either of them, and I procured a new viewpoint of Miss Val Beverly. Her repose was misleading. She deliberately subjugated her own vital personality to that of Madame Distemmer. Why, I knew not, unless she felt herself under an obligation to do so. That her blue-gray eyes could be wistful was true enough, they could also be gay. And once I detected in them a look of sadness which dispelled the butterfly illusion belonging to her dainty slenderness, to her mobile lips, to the vagabond curling hair of Russet Brown. Paul Harley's manner remained absent, but I, who knew his mood so well, recognized that his abstraction was no longer real. It was a pose, which he often adopted when in reality he was keenly interested in his surroundings. It baffled me, however, as effectively as it baffled others, and whilst at one moment I decided that he was studying Colonel Menendez, in the next I became convinced that Madame Distemmer was the subject upon his mental dissecting table. That he should find in Madame a fascinating problem did not surprise me. She must have afforded tempting study for any psychologist. I could not fathom the nature of the kinship existing between herself and the Spanish Colonel, for Madame Distemmer was French to her fingertips. Her expressions, her gestures, her whole outlook on life proclaimed the fashionable Parisienne. She possessed a vigorous, masculine intelligence and was the most entertaining companion imaginable. She was daringly outspoken, and it was hard to believe that her gaiety was forced. Yet, as the afternoon wore on, I became more and more convinced that such was the case. I thought that, before affliction visited her, Madame Distemmer must have been a vivacious and a beautiful woman. Her vivacity remained and much of her beauty, so that it was difficult to believe her snow-white hair to be a product of nature. Again and again I found myself regarding it as a powdered coiffure of the pompadour period, and wondering why Madame wore no patches. That a deep and sympathetic understanding existed between herself and Colonel Menendez was unmistakable. More than once I intercepted glances from the dark eyes of Madame which were lover-like, yet laden with a profound sorrow. She was playing a role, and I was convinced that Harley knew this. It was not merely a courageous fight against affliction on the part of a woman of the world versed in masking her real self from the prying eyes of society. It was a studied performance prompted by some deeper motive. She dressed with exquisite taste, and to see her seated there amid her cushions gesticulating vivaciously one would never have supposed that she was crippled. My admiration for her momentarily increased, the more so since I could see that she was sincerely fond of Val Beverly, whose every movement she followed with the looks of almost motherly affection. This was all the more strange as Madame Distemmer, whose age I supposed lay somewhere on the sunny side of forty, was of a type which expects and wins affection, long after the average woman has ceased to be attractive. One endowed with such a temperament is, as a rule, unreasonably jealous of youth and good looks in another. I could not determine if Madame's attitude were to be ascribed to complacent self-satisfaction or to a nobler motive. It suffice for me that she took an unfaying joy in the youthful sweetness of her companion. Val Dia, she said presently, addressing the girl, you should make those snives short here, my dear. She had a rapid wave speaking and possessed a slightly husky but fascinatingly vibrant voice. Your arms are very pretty, you should not hide them. Val Beverly blushed and laughed to conceal her embarrassment. Oh, my dear, exclaimed Madame, who I be ashamed of arms. All women have arms, but some do well to hide them. Quite right, Marie, agreed the Colonel, his thin voice affording an odd contrast to the deeper tones of his cousin. But it is a scraggly one who seemed to delight in displaying their angles. The English, yes, Madame admitted, but the French, no, they are too clever one. English women think too much about their looks, said Val Beverly quietly. Oh, you know they do, Madame. They would rather die than be without admiration. Madame shrugged her shoulders. So would I, my dear, she confessed. Although I cannot walk, without admiration there is—she snapped her fingers—nothing. And who would notice a linnet when a bird of paradise was about, however sweet her voice. Tell me that, my dear." Paul hardly aroused himself and laughed heartily. Yet, he said, I think with Miss Beverly that this love of elegance does not always make for happiness. Surely it is the cause of half the domestic tragedies in France. Ah, ze French love elegance! cried Madame shrugging. Ze cannot help it. To secure what is elegant to a French woman would sometimes forget Rosbun, yes, but never forget herself. Really, Marie, protested the Colonel, you say most strange things. Is that so, Juan? she replied, casting one of her queer glances in his direction. But how would you like to be surrounded by a lot of drabs, eh? Zatman, Mr. Knox. She extended one white hand in the direction of Colonel Menendez, the fingers half closed, in a gesture which curiously reminded me of Sarah Bernhardt. Zatman would notice if a parlor maid came into the room with a shoe unbuttoned. Poof! If we love elegance, it is because without it Ze Min would never love us. Colonel Menendez bent across the table and kissed the white fingers in his courtier-like fashion. My sweet cousin, he said, I should love you in rags. Madame smiled and flushed like a girl, but withdrawing her hand she shrugged. Ze would have to be pretty rags, she added. During this little scene I detected Val Beverly looking at me in a vaguely troubled way, and it was easy to guess that she was wondering what construction I should place upon it. However, I am going into Zat-Town, and declared Madame de Stemmer energetically. Half the things noted from Artleys have never been sent. Oh, Madame, please let me go, cried Val Beverly. My dear, pronounced Madame, I will not let you go, but I will let you come with me if you wish. She rang a little bell, which stood upon the tea-table beside the urn, and Pedro came out through the drawing-room. Pedro, she said, is the car ready? The Spanish butler bowed. Tell Carter to bring it round. Very dear to the girl, if you are coming with me, I shall not be a minute. Thereupon she whisked her mechanical chair about, waved her hand to dismiss Pedro, and went steering through the drawing-room at a great rate, with Val Beverly walking beside her. As we resumed our seats, Colonel Menendez laid back with half-closed eyes, his glance following the chair and its occupant until both were swallowed up in the shadows of the big drawing-room. Madame de Stemmer is a very remarkable woman, said Paul Harley. Remarkable, replied the Colonel, the spirit of all the old chivalry of France is imprisoned within her, I think. He passed cigarettes around, of a long kind resembling sheroots and wrapped in tobacco-leaf. I thought it strange that having thus emphasized Madame's nationality, he did not feel it incumbent upon him to explain the mystery of their kinship. However, he made no attempt to do so, and almost before we had lighted up a racy little two-seater was driven around the gravel path by Carter, the chauffeur, who had brought us to Craze Folly from London. The man descended and began to arrange wraps and cushions, and a few moments later, back came Madame again, dressed for driving. Carter was about to lift her into the car when Colonel Menendez stood up and advanced. "'Sit down, one, sit down,' said Madame sharply. A look of keen anxiety I had almost set of pain leapt into her eyes, and the Colonel hesitated. "'How often must I tell you,' continued the throbbing voice, "'that you must not exert yourself?' Colonel Menendez accepted the rebuke humbly, but the incident struck me as grotesque. For it was difficult to associate delicacy with such a fine specimen of well-preserved manhood as the Colonel. However, Carter performed the duty of assisting Madame into her little car, and when for a moment he supported her upright, before placing her among the cushions I noticed that she was a tall woman, slender and elegant. All smiles and light, sparkling conversation, she settled herself comfortably at the wheel and Val Beverly got in beside her. Madame, nodded to Carter in dismissal, waved her hand to Colonel Menendez, cried, ah, revois, and then away went the little car, swinging around the angle of the house and out of sight. Our host stood bare-headed upon the veranda, listening to the sound of the engine dying away among the trees. He seemed to be lost in reflection from which he only aroused himself when the purr of the motor became inaudible. "'And now, gentlemen,' he said, and suppressed a sigh, we have mush to talk about. This spot is cool, but is it sufficiently private? Perhaps, Mr. Harley, you would prefer to talk in the library.' All Harley flicked ash from the end of his cigarette. "'Better still in your own study, Colonel Menendez,' he replied. "'What, do you suspect Yeavesdroppers?' asked the Colonel, his manner becoming momentarily agitated. He looked at Harley as though he suspected the latter of possessing private information. "'We should neglect no possible precaution,' answered my friend, that agencies inimical to your safety are focused upon the house your own statement amply demonstrates. Colonel Menendez seemed to be on the point of speaking again, but he checked himself, and in silence led the way through the ornate library to a smaller room which opened out of it, and which was furnished as a study. Here the motif was distinctly one of officialdom. Although the southern element was not lacking, it was not so marked as in the library or in the hall. The place was appointed for utility rather than ornament. Everything in perfect order. In the library, with the blinds drawn, one might have supposed oneself in Trinidad. In the study, under similar conditions, one might equally well have imagined Downing Street to lie outside the windows. Essentially, this was the workroom of a man of affairs. Having settled ourselves comfortably, Colonel Harley opened the conversation. 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 penciled 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 the 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. In 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 the sect over which he had formally presided. Assuming the second to be accurate, however, it is presumably the man himself for whom we must look. Now, Colonel Menendez, kindly inform me if you recall the name of this man. I recall it very well, replied the Colonel. His name was Macombo, and he was a Benin Negro. Assuming that he is still alive, what, roughly, would his age be to-day? The Colonel seemed to meditate, pushing a box of long martinique cigars across the table in my direction. He would be an old man, he pronounced. I, myself, am fifty-two, and I should say that Macombo, if alive to-day, would be nearer to seventy than sixty. Ah, murmured Harley. And did he speak English? A few words, I believe. Paul Harley fixed his gaze upon the dark, aquiline face. In short, he said, do you really suspect that it was Macombo whose shadow you saw upon the lawn, who a month ago made a midnight entrance into craze folly, and who recently pinned a bat-wing to the door? Sir Menendez seemed somewhat taken aback by this direct question. I cannot believe it, he confessed. Do you believe that this order or religion of voodooism has any existence outside those places where African Negroes or descendants of Negroes are settled? I should not have been prepared to believe it, Mr. Harley, prior to my experiences in Washington and elsewhere. Then you do believe that there are representatives of this cult to be met with in Europe and in America? I should have been prepared to believe it possibly in America, for in America there are many Negroes, but in England, again he shrugged his shoulders. I would remind you, said Harley quietly, that there are also quite a number of Negroes in England. If you seriously believe voodoo to follow Negro migration, I can see no objection to assuming it to be a universal cult. Such an idea is incredible. Yet, by what other hypothesis, asked Harley, are we to cover the facts of your own case as stated by yourself? Now, he consulted his penciled notes, there is another point. I gathered that these African sorcerers rely largely upon what I may term intimidation. In other words, they claim the power of wishing an enemy to death. He raised his eyes and stared grimly at the Colonel. I should not like to suppose that a man of your courage and culture could subscribe to such a belief. I do not, sir, declared the Colonel warmly. No, albeit a man could ever exercise his will upon me. Yet, if I may say so, murmured Harley, your will to live seems to have become somewhat weakened. What do you mean? Colonel Menendez stood up, his delicate nostrils dilated. He glared angrily at Harley. I mean that I perceive a certain resignation in your manner of which I do not approve. You do not approve, said Colonel Menendez softly, and I thought as he stood looking down upon my friend that I had rarely seen a more formidable figure. Paul Harley had roused him unaccountably, and knowing my friend for a master of tact I knew also that this had been deliberate, although I could not even dimly perceive his object. I occupy the position of a specialist, Harley continued, and you occupy that of my patient. Now, you cannot disguise for me that your mental opposition to this danger which threatens has become slackened. Allow me to remind you that the strongest defense is counterattack. You are angry, Colonel Menendez, but I would rather see you angry than apathetic. To come to my last point, you spoke of a neighbor in terms which led me to suppose that you suspected him of some association with your enemies. May I ask the name of this person? Colonel Menendez sat down again, puffing furiously at his cigarette, whilst beginning to roll another. He was much disturbed, was fighting to regain mastery of himself. I apologize from the bottom of my heart, he said, for a breach of good behavior which really was unforgivable. I was angry when I should have been grateful. Much that you have said is true, because it is true I despise myself. He flashed a glance at Paul Harley. Awake, he continued. I care for no man breathing, black or white. But asleep, he shrugged his shoulders. It is in sleep that these dithers in unclean things obtain their advantage. You excite my curiosity, declared Harley. Listen, Colonel Menendez bent forward, resting his elbows upon his knees. Between the yellow fingers of his left hand he held the newly completed cigarette whilst he continued to puff vigorously at the old one. You recollect my speaking of the death of a certain native girl? Paul Harley nodded. The real cause of her death was never known. But I obtained evidence to show that on the night after the wing of a bat had been attached to her hut, she wandered out in her sleep and visited the black belt. Can you doubt that someone was calling her? Calling her? Mr. Harley, she was obeying the call of McCombo. The call of McCombo? You refer to some kind of hypnotic suggestions? I illustrate, replied the Colonel, to help make clear something which I have to tell you. On the night when the last moon was full, on the night after someone had entered the house, I had retired early to bed. Suddenly I awoke, feeling very cold. I awoke, I say, and where do you suppose I found myself? I am all anxiety to hear. On the point of entering the Tudor Garden, you call it Tudor Garden, which is visible from the window of your room. Most extraordinary, murmured Harley, and you were in your night attire? I was. And what had awakened you? An accident. I believe a lucky accident. I had cut my bare foot upon the gravel and a pain awakened me. You had no recollection of any dream which had prompted you to go down into the garden? None whatever. Does your room face in that direction? It does not. It faces the lake on the south of the house. I had descended to a side door, unbarred it, and walked entirely around the east wing before I awakened. Your room faces the lake, murmured Harley. Yes. Their glances met, and in Paul Harley's expression there seemed to be a challenge. You have not yet told me, he said, the name of your neighbor. Colonel Menendez lighted his new cigarette. Mr. Harley, he confessed, I regret that I ever referred to this suspicion of mine. Indeed, it is hardly a suspicion. It is what I may call a desperate doubt. Do you say that, a desperate doubt? I think I follow you, said Harley. The fact is this. I only know of one person within ten miles of Craze Folly who has ever visited Cuba. Ah! I have no other scrap of evidence to associate him with my shadowy enemy. This being so, you will pardon me if I ask you to forget that I ever referred to his existence. He spoke the words with a sort of lofty finality, and accompanied them with a gesture of the hands which really left Harley no alternative but to drop the subject. In their glances met, and it was patent to me that underlying all this conversation was something beyond my ken. What it was that Harley suspected I could not imagine, nor what it was that Colonel Menendez desired to conceal, but tension was in the very air. The Spaniard was on the defensive, and Paul Harley was puzzled, irritated. It was a strange interview, and one which in the light of after events I recognize to possess extraordinary significance. That sixth sense of Harley's was awake, was prompting him, but to what extent he understood its promptings at that hour I do not know, and have never known to this day. Intuitively I believe as he sat there staring at Colonel Menendez he began to perceive the shadow within a shadow which was the secret of Craze Folly, which was the thing called Batwing, which was the devilish force at the very hour alive and potent in our midst. CHAPTER IX OBEYA This conversation in Colonel Menendez's study produced a very unpleasant impression upon my mind. The atmosphere of Craze Folly seemed to become charged with unrest. Of Madame de Stemmer and Miss Beverly I saw nothing up to the time that I retired to dress. Having dressed I walked into Harley's room, anxious to learn if he had formed any theory to account for the singular business which had brought us to Surrey. Harley had excused himself directly we had left the study, stating that he wished to get to the village post office in time to send a telegram to London. Our host had suggested a messenger, but this, as well as the offer of a car, Harley had declined, saying that the exercise would aid reflection. Nevertheless I was surprised to find his room empty, for I could not imagine why the sending of a telegram should have detained him so long. Dusk was falling, and viewed from the open window the Tudor garden below looked very beautiful, part of it lying in a sort of purplish shadow, and the rest being mystically lighted as though viewed through a golden veil. To the whole picture a sort of magic quality was added by a speck of highlight which rested upon the face of the old sundial. I thought that here was a fit illustration for a fairy tale. Then I remembered the Colonel's account of how he had awakened in the act of entering this romantic placence, and I was touched anew by an unrestfulness, a sense of the uncanny. I observed a book lying upon the dressing-table, and concluding that it was one which Harley had brought with him I took it up glancing at the title. It was Negro Magic. And switching on the light, for there was a private electric plant in Craves Folly, I opened the book at random and began to read. The religion of the Negro, said this authority, is emotional and more often than not associated with beliefs in witchcraft and in the rites known as Voodoo, or Obey Mysteries. It has been endeavored by some students to show that these are relics of the fetish worship of equatorial Africa, but such a genealogy has never been satisfactorily demonstrated. The cannibalistic rituals, human sacrifices, and obscene ceremonies resembling those of the black Sabbath of the Middle Ages reported to prevail in Haiti and other of the islands and by some among the Negroes of the southern states of America may be said to rest on doubtful authority. Nevertheless it is a fact beyond doubt that among the Negroes both of the West Indies and the United States there is a widespread belief in the powers of the Obia Man. A native who believes himself to have come under the spell of such a sorcerer will sink into a kind of decline and sometimes die. At this point I discovered several paragraphs underlined in pencil and concluding that the underlining had been done by Paul Harley I read them with particular care. They were as follows. According to Hesketh J. Bell the term Obia is most probably derived from the substantive Obie, a word used on the east coast of Africa to denote witchcraft, sorcery, and fetishism in general. The etymology of Obie has been traced to a very antique source, stretching far back into Egyptian mythology. A serpent in the Egyptian language was called Ob, or Ob. Obian is still the Egyptian name for a serpent. Moses, in the name of God, forbade the Israelites ever to inquire of the demon Ob, which is translated in our Bible, charmer or wizard, divinator or sorcerer. The witch of Endor is called Alb, or Ob, translated Pythonisa, and Albois was the name of the basilisk or royal serpent, emblem of the son and an ancient oracular deity of Africa. A paragraph followed which was doubly underlined, and pursuing my reading I made a discovery which literally caused me to hold my breath. This is what I read. In a recent contribution to the occult review, Mr. Colin Camber, the American authority, offered some very curious particulars in support of a theory to show that, whereas snakes and scorpions have always been recognized as sacred by voodoo worshipers, the real emblem of their unclean religion is the bat, especially the vampire bat of South America. He pointed out that the symptoms of one dying beneath the spell of an obiuman are closely paralleled in the cases of men and animals who have suffered from nocturnal attacks of blood-sucking bats. I laid the open book down upon the bed. My brain was in a tumult. The several theories, or outlines of theories which hitherto I had entertained, were by these simple paragraphs cast into the utmost disorder. I thought of the Colonel's covert references to a neighbor whom he feared, of his guarded statement that the devotees of voodoo were not confined to the West Indies, of the attack upon him in Washington, of the bat-wing pinned to the door of craze folly. Incredulously I thought of my acquaintance of the lavender arms, with his bemused expression and his magnificent brow, and a great doubt and wonder grew up in my mind. I became increasingly impatient for the return of Paul Harley. I felt that a clue of the first importance had fallen into my possession, though that when presently, as I walked impatiently up and down the room, the door opened and Harley entered, I greeted him excitedly. Harley, I cried, Harley, I have learned a most extraordinary thing! Even as I spoke and looked into the keen, eager face, the expression in Harley's eyes struck me. I recognized that in him, too, intense excitement was pent up. Furthermore, he was in one of his irritable moods, but full of my own discoveries. I chanced a glance at this book, I continued, whilst I was waiting for you. You have underlined certain passages. He stared at me queerly. I discovered the book in my own library after you had gone last night, Knox, and it was then that I marked the passages which struck me as significant. But Harley, I cried, the man who was quoted here, Colin Camber, lives in this very neighborhood. I know. What, you know? I learned it from Inspector Aylesbury of the County Police half an hour ago. Harley frowned perplexedly. Then, why in heaven's name didn't you tell me, he exclaimed, it would have saved me a most disagreeable journey into Market Hilton. Market Hilton? What, have you been into the Hilton? That is exactly where I have been, Knox. I phoned through to Innis from the Village Post Office after lunch to have the car sent down. There is a convenient garage by the lavender arms. But the Colonel has three cars, I exclaimed. The horse has four legs, replied Harley irritably, but although I have only two, there are times when I prefer to use them. I am still wondering why you failed to mention this piece of information when you obtained it. My dear Harley, said I patiently, how could I possibly be expected to attach any importance to the matter? You must remember that at the time I had never seen this work on Negro sorcery. No, said Harley, dropping down upon the bed. That is perfectly true, Knox. I am afraid I have a liver at times, a distinct Indian liver. Excuse me, old man, but to tell you the truth, I feel strangely inclined to pack my bag and leave for London without a moment's delay. What! I cried. Oh, I know you would be sorry to go, Knox, said Harley, smiling, and so for many reasons should I, but I have the strongest possible objection to being trifled with. I am afraid I don't quite understand you, Harley. Well, just consider the matter for the moment. Do you suppose that Colonel Menendez is ignorant of the fact that his nearest neighbor is a recognized authority upon voodoo and allied subjects? You are speaking, of course, of Cullen Camber, of none other. No, I replied thoughtfully. The Colonel must know, of course, that Camber resides in the neighborhood. And that he knows something of the nature of Camber's studies his remarks officially indicate, added Harley, the whole theory to account for these attacks upon his life rests on the premise that agents of these Obea people are established in England and America. Then, in spite of my direct questions, he leaves me to find out for myself that Cullen Camber's property practically adjoins his own. Really, does he reside so near as that? My dear fellow, cried Harley, he lives at a place called the Guest House. You can see it from part of the grounds of Craze Folly. We were looking at it to-day. What, the house on the hillside? That's the Guest House. What do you make of it, Knox, that Menendez suspects this man is beyond doubt? Why should he hesitate to mention his name? Well, I replied slowly, probably because to associate practical sorcery and assassination with such a character would be preposterous. But the man is admittedly a student of these things, Knox. He may be, and that he is a genius of some kind, I am quite prepared to believe. But having had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Cullen Camber, I am not prepared to believe him capable of murder. I suppose I spoke with a certain air of triumph, for Paul Harley regarded me silently for a while. You seem to be taking this case out of my hands, Knox, he said. Whilst I have been systematically at work racing about the county in quest of information, you would appear to have blundered further into the labyrinth than all my industry has enabled me to do. He remained in a very evil humor, and now the cause of this suddenly came to light. I have spent a thoroughly unpleasant afternoon, he continued, interviewing an impossible country policeman who had never heard of my existence. This display of human resentment honestly delighted me. It was refreshing to know that the omniscient Paul Harley was capable of peak. One Inspector Aylesbury, he went on bitterly, a large person bearing a really interesting resemblance to a walrus, but lacking that creature's intelligence. It was not until Superintendent East had spoken to him from Scotland Yard that he ceased to treat me as a suspect. But his new attitude was almost more provoking than the old one. He adopted the manner of a regimental sergeant major reluctantly interviewing a private with a grievance. If matters should so develop that we are compelled to deal with that fish-faced idiot, God help us all. He burst out laughing. His good humor suddenly quite restored, and taking out his pipe began industriously to load it. I can smoke while I'm changing, he said, and you can sit there and tell me all about Cullen Camber. I did as he requested, and Harley, who could change quicker than any man I had ever known, had just finished tying his bow as I completed my story of the encounter at the lavender arms. Hmm, he muttered as I ceased speaking. At every turn I realized that without you I should have been lost, Knox. I am afraid I shall have to change your duties to-morrow. Change my duties? What do you mean? I warn you that the new ones will be less pleasant than the old. In other words, I must ask you to tear yourself away from Miss Val Beverly for an hour in the morning and take advantage of Mr. Camber's invitation to call upon him. Frankly, I doubt if he would acknowledge me. Nevertheless, you have a better excuse than I. In the circumstances it is most important that we should get in touch with this man. Very well, I said ruefully. I will do my best. But you don't seriously think, Harley, that the danger comes from there. Paul Harley took his dinner-jacket from the chair upon which the man had laid it out and turned to me. My dear Knox, he said, you may remember that I spoke recently of retiring from this profession. You did? My retirement will not be voluntary, Knox. I shall be kicked out as an incompetent ass. For respecting the connection, if any, between the narrative of Colonel Menendez, the bat-wing nailed to the door of the house, and Mr. Cullen Camber, I have not the foggiest notion. In this, at last, I have triumphed over Auguste Dupin. Auguste Dupin never confessed defeat. End of Part 3 Part 5 of BAT-WING by Sachs Romer, read by Mark Nelson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. BAT-WING CHAPTER X. THE NIGHTWALKER. If luncheon had seemed extravagant, dinner at Craze Folly proved to be a veritable Roman banquet. To associate ideas of selfishness with Miss Beverly was hateful, but the more I learned of the luxurious life of this queer household hidden away in the Surrey Hills, the less I wondered at any one's consenting to share such exile. I had hitherto counted an American steak dinner, organized by a lucky plunger and held at the Café de Paris as the last word in extravagant feasting. But I learned now that what was caviar in Monte Carlo was ordinary fare at Craze Folly. Colonel Menendez was an epicure with an endless purse. The excellence of one of the courses upon which I had commented led to a curious incident. You, a proof of the efforts of my chef, said the Colonel? He is worthy of his employer, I replied. Colonel Menendez bowed in his cavalierly fashion and Madame de Stemmer positively beamed upon me. You shall speak for him, said the Spaniard. He was with me in Cuba, but has no reputation in London. There are hotels that would snap him up. I looked at the speaker in surprise. Surely he is not leaving you, I asked. The Colonel exhibited a momentary embarrassment. No, no, no, no, he replied, waving his hand gracefully. I was only thinking that he, there was a scarce perceptible pause, might wish to better himself, you understand. I understood only too well, and recollecting the words spoken by Paul Harley that afternoon, respecting the Colonel's will to live, I became conscious of an uncomfortable sense of chill. If I had doubted that in so speaking he had been contemplating his own death, the behavior of Madame de Stemmer must have convinced me. Her complexion was slightly but cleverly made up, with all the exquisite art of the Parisienne, but even through the artificial bloom I saw her cheeks blench. Her face grew haggard and her eyes burned unnaturally. She turned quickly aside to address Paul Harley, but I knew that the significance of this slight episode had not escaped him. He was by no means at ease. In the first place he was badly puzzled, in the second place he was angry. He felt it incumbent upon him to save this man from a menace which he, Paul Harley, evidently recognized to be real, although to me it appeared wildly comirical, and the very person upon whose active cooperation he naturally counted, not only seemed resigned to his fate but by deliberate omission of important data, added to Harley's difficulties. How much of this secret drama preceding and crazed Folly was appreciated by Val Beverly I could not determine. On this occasion I remember she was simply but perfectly dressed, and in my eyes seemed the most sweetly desirable woman I had ever known. Realizing that I had already revealed my interest in the girl I was oddly self-conscious, and a hundred times during the progress of dinner I glanced across at Harley expecting to detect his quizzical smile. Harley was very stern, however, and seemed more reserved than usual. He was uncertain of his ground, I could see. He resented the understanding which evidently existed between Colonel Menendez and Madame de Stemmer, and to which, although his aid had been sought, he was not admitted. It seemed to me personally that an almost palpable shadow lay upon the room, although, say for this one lapse, our host throughout talked gaily and entertainingly, I was obsessed by a memory of the expression which I had detected upon his face that morning, the expression of a doomed man. What, in Heaven's name, I asked myself, did it all mean? If ever I saw the fighting spirit looking out of any man's eyes, it looked out of the eyes of Don Juan Sarmiento Menendez. Why, then, did he lie down to the menace of this mysterious bat-wing, and if he counted opposition futile, why had he summoned Paul Harley to craze folly? With the passing of every moment I sympathized more fully with the perplexity of my friend, and no longer wondered that even his highly specialized faculties had failed to detect an explanation. Remembering Colin Camber as I had seen him at the lavender arms, it was simply impossible to suppose that such a man as Menendez could fear such a man as Camber. True, I had seen the latter at a disadvantage, and I knew well enough that many a genius had been also a drunkard. But although I was prepared to find that Colin Camber possessed genius, I found it hard to believe that this was of a criminal type. That such a character could be the representative of some remote Negro society was an idea too grotesque to be entertained for a moment. I was tempted to believe that his presence in the neighborhood of this haunted Cuban was one of those strange coincidences which in criminal history have sometimes proved so tragic for their victims. Madame de Stemmer, avoiding the Colonel's glances, which were pathetically apologetic, gradually recovered herself, and... My dear, she said to Val Beverly, you look perfectly sweet tonight. Don't you think she looks perfectly sweet, Mr. Knox? Ignoring a look of entreaty from the blue-gray eyes. Perfectly, I replied. Oh, Mr. Knox, cried the girl, why do you encourage her? She says embarrassing things like that every time I put on a new dress. Her reference to a new dress set me speculating again upon the apparent anomaly of her presence at Craze Folly. That she was not a professional companion was clear enough. I assumed that her father had left her suitably provided for, since she wore such expensively simple gowns. She had a delightful trick of blushing when attention was focused upon her, and said, Madame de Stemmer, to be able to blush like that I would give my string of pearls, no, half of it. My dear Marie, declared Colonel Menendez, I have seen you blush perfectly. No, no, Madame, disclaimed the suggestion, with one of those bairn-hard gestures. I blushed my last blush when my second husband introduced me to my first husband's wife. Madame! exclaimed Val Beverly, how can you say such things? She turned to me. Really, Mr. Knox, they are all fables. When fables re-renew our youths, said Madame. Ah! sighed Colonel Menendez, our youth, our youth. Why sigh, Juan, oh, I regret, cried Madame immediately. Oh, the age is only tragic, sous-os who have never been young. She directed a glance toward him as she spoke those words, and as I had felt when I had seen his tragic face on the veranda that morning, I felt again in detecting this look of Madame Distemmers. The yearning, yet selfless love which had expressed, was not for my eyes to witness. Thank God, Marie! replied the Colonel, and gallantly kissed his hand to her. We have both been young, gloriously young. When, at the termination of this truly historic dinner, the ladies left us. Remember Juan, said Madame, raising her white, jeweled hand, and holding the fingers characteristically curled. No excitement, no billiards, no cards. Colonel Menendez bowed deeply as the invalid wheeled herself from the room, followed by Miss Beverly. My heart was beating delightfully, for in the moment of departure the latter had favored me with a significant glance, which seemed to say, I am looking forward to a chat with you presently. Ah, said Colonel Menendez, when we three men found ourselves alone. Truly I am blessed in the autumn of my life with such charming companionship. Beauty and wit, youth and discretion. Is he not a happy man who possesses all these? He should be, said Harley gravely. The Saturnine Pedro entered with some wonderful crusted port and Colonel Menendez offered cigars. I believe you are a pipe-smoker, said our courteous host to Harley, and if this is so, I know that you will prefer your favorite mixture to any cigar that ever was rolled. Many thanks, said Harley, to whom no more delicate compliment could have been paid. He was indeed an inveterate pipe-smoker, and only rarely did he truly enjoy a cigar, however choice its pedigree. With a sigh of content he began to fill his briar. His mood was more restful, and covertly I watched him studying our host. The night remained very warm and one of the two windows of the dining-room, which was the most homely apartment in Craze Folly, was wide open, offering a prospect of sweeping velvet lawns touched by the magic of the moonlight. A short silence fell to be broken by the Colonel. Gentlemen, he said, I trust you do not regret your fishing excursion. I could cheerfully pass the rest of my days in such ideal surroundings, replied Paul Harley. I nodded in agreement. But, continued my friend, speaking very deliberately, I have to remember that I am here on business and that my professional reputation is perhaps at stake. He stared very hard at Colonel Menendez. I have spoken with your butler, known as Pedro, and with some of the other servants, and have learned all that there is to be learned about the person unknown who gained admittance to the house a month ago, and concerning the wing of a bat found attached to the door more recently. 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 unable 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. Cullen Camber, he said. Cullen Camber! As the Colonel spoke the name, either I became victim of a strange delusion or his face was momentarily convulsed. If my senses serve me aright, then his pronouncing of the words Cullen 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? I have a reason, replied Paul Harley, but don't misunderstand me. I suggest nothing against Mr. Camber. I should be glad, however, to know if you are acquainted with him. We have never met. You possibly know him by repute? I have heard of him, Mr. Harley, but to be perfectly frank I have little in common with citizens of the United States. A note of arrogance which at times crept into his high, thin voice became perceptible now, and the aristocratic, aquiline face looked very supercilious. How the conversation would have developed I know not, but at this moment Pedro entered and delivered a message in Spanish to the Colonel, whereupon the ladder arose and with very profuse apologies begged permission to leave us for a few moments. When he had retired, I am going upstairs to write a letter, Knox, said Paul Harley. Carry on with your old duties today. Your new ones do not commence until tomorrow. With that he laughed and walked out of the dining-room, leaving me wondering whether to be grateful or annoyed. However, it did not take me long to find my way to the drawing-room where the two ladies were seated side by side upon a seddie, Madame's chair having been wheeled into a corner. Ah, Miss Del Knox! exclaimed Madame, as I entered. Have the others deserted then? Scarcely deserted, I think. They are merely straggling. Absent without leave, murmured Val Beverly. I laughed and drew up a chair. Madame de Stemmer was smoking, but Miss Beverly was not. Accordingly I offered her a cigarette, which she accepted, and as I was lighting it with elaborate care, every moment finding a new beauty in her charming face, Pedro again appeared and addressed some remark in Spanish to Madame. My chair, Pedro, she said, I will come at once. The Spanish butler wheeled the chair across to the seddie and lifting her with an ease which spoke of long practice, placed her amidst the cushions where she spent so many hours of her life. I know you really excuse me, dear, she said to Val Beverly, because I feel sure that Miss Del Knox would do his very best to make up for my absence. Presently I shall be back. Pedro holding the door open, she went wheeling out, and I found myself alone with Val Beverly. At the time I was much too delighted to question the circumstances which had led to this tet-a-tet, but had I cared to give the matter any consideration it must have presented rather curious features. The call first of host and then of hostess was inconsistent with the courtesy of the master of craze folly, which, like the appointments of his home and his mode of life, was elaborate. But these ideas did not trouble me at the moment. Suddenly, however, indeed before I had time to speak, the girl started and laid her hand upon my arm. Did you hear something, she whispered, a queer sort of sound? No, I replied, what kind of sound? An odd sort of sound, almost like the flapping of wings. I saw that she had turned pale. I saw the confirmation of something which I had only partly realized before, that her life at craze folly was a constant fight against some haunting shadow. Her gaity, her lightness were but a mask. For now, in those wide-open eyes, I read absolute horror. Miss Beverly, I said, grasping her hand reassuringly, you alarm me. What has made you so nervous to-night? To-night, she echoed, to-night, it is every night. If you had not come," she corrected herself, if someone had not come, I don't think I could have stayed. I am sure I could not have stayed. Doubtless the attempted burglary alarmed you, I suggested, intending to soothe her fears. Burglary, she smiled unmerthfully. It was no burglary. Why do you say so, Miss Beverly? Do you think I don't know why Mr. Harley is here? She challenged. Oh, believe me, I know, I know! I too saw the bat's wing nailed to the door, Mr. Knox. You are surely not going to suggest that this was the work of a burglar. I seated myself beside her on the settee. You have great courage, I said. Believe me, I quite understand all that you have suffered. Is my acting so poor? she asked with a pathetic smile. No, it is wonderful, but to a sympathetic observer only acting nevertheless. I noted that my presence reassured her and was much comforted by this fact. Would you like to tell me all about it, I continued, or would this merely renew your fears? I should like to tell you, she replied in a low voice, glancing about her as if to make sure that we were alone. Except for odd people, friends, I suppose, of the kernels, we have had so few visitors since we have been at Craze Folly. Apart from all sorts of queer happenings, which really, she laughed nervously, may have no significance whatever, the crowning mystery to my mind is why Colonel Menendez should have leased this huge house. He does not entertain very much then? Scarcely at all. The county, do you know what I mean by the county, began by receiving him with open arms and ended by sending him to Coventry. His lavish style of entertainment they labelled swank, horrible word but very offensive. They concluded that they did not understand him, and of everything they don't understand they disapprove. So after the first month or so it became very lonely at Craze Folly. Our foreign servants, there are five of them altogether, got us a dreadfully bad name. Then, little by little, a sort of cloud seemed to settle on everything. The Colonel made two visits abroad, I don't know exactly where he went, but on his return from the first visit Madame de Stemmer changed. Changed in what way? I am afraid it would be hopeless to try to make you understand, Mr. Knox, but in some subtle way she changed. Underneath all her vivacity she is a tragic woman, and, oh, how can I explain? Val Beverly made a little gesture of despair. Perhaps you mean, I suggested, that she seemed to become even less happy than before. Yes, she replied, looking at me eagerly. Has Colonel Menendez told you anything to account for it? Nothing, I said. He has left us strangely in the dark. But you say he went abroad on a second and more recent occasion? Yes, not much more than a month ago, and after that, somehow or other, matters seemed to come to a head. I confess I became horribly frightened, but to have left would have seemed like desertion, and Madame de Stemmer has been so good to me. Did you actually witness any of the episodes which took place about a month ago? Val Beverly shook her head. I never saw anything really definite, she replied. Yet evidently you either saw or heard something which alarmed you. Yes, that is true, but it is so difficult to explain. Could you try to explain? I will try, if you wish, for really I am longing to talk to someone about it. For instance, on several occasions I have heard footsteps in the corridor outside my room. At night? Yes, at night. Which footsteps? She nodded. That is the uncanny part of it. You know how familiar one grows with the footsteps of persons living in the same house, while these footsteps were quite unfamiliar to me. And you say they passed your door? Yes, my rooms are almost directly overhead, and right at the end of the corridor, that is on the southeast corner of the building, is Colonel Menendez's bedroom, and facing it is a sort of little smoke room. It was in this direction that the footsteps went. To Colonel Menendez's room? Yes, they were light, furtive footsteps. This took place late at night, quite late, long after everyone had retired. She paused, staring at me with a sort of embarrassment, and presently, Were the footsteps those of a man or a woman, I asked? Of a woman? Someone, Mr. Knox, she bent forward, and that look of fear began to creep into her eyes again. With whose footsteps I was quite unfamiliar. You mean a stranger to the house? Yes. Oh, it was uncanny, she shuddered. The first time I heard it, I had been lying awake listening. I was nervous. Madam Distemmer had told me that morning that the Colonel had seen someone lurking about the lawns on the previous night. Then, as I lay awake listening for the slightest sound, I suddenly detected these footsteps, and they paused right outside my door. Good heavens! I exclaimed, what did you do? Frankly, I was too frightened to do anything. I just lay still with my heart beating horribly, and presently they passed on, and I heard them no more. Was your door locked? No, she laughed nervously, but it has been locked every night since then. And these sounds were repeated on other nights? Yes, I have often heard them, Mr. Knox. What makes it so strange is that all the servants sleep out in the west wing, as you know, and Pedro locks the communicating door every night before retiring. It is certainly strange, I muttered. It is horrible, declared the girl, almost in a whisper, for what can it mean except that there is someone in craze folly who is never seen during the daytime? But that is incredible. It is not so incredible in a big house like this. Besides, what other explanation can there be? There must be one, I said reassuringly. Have you spoken of this to Madame de Stemmer? Yes. Val Beverly's expression grew troubled. Had she any explanation to offer? None. Her attitude mystified me very much. Indeed, instead of reassuring me, she frightened me more than ever by her very silence. I grew to dread the coming of each night. Then she hesitated again, looking at me pathetically. Twice I had been awakened by a loud cry. What kind of cry? I could not tell you, Mr. Knox. You see, I have always been asleep when it has come, but I've sat up trembling and dimly aware that what had awakened me was a cry of some kind. You have no idea from whence it proceeded? None whatever. Of course, all these things may seem trivial to you, and possibly they can be explained in quite a simple way. But this feeling of something pending has grown almost unendurable. Then I don't understand Madame and the Colonel at all. She suddenly stopped speaking and flushed with embarrassment. If you mean that Madame de Stemmer is in love with her cousin, I agree with you, I said quietly. Oh, is it so evident as that? murmured Val Beverly. She laughed to cover her confusion. I wish I could understand what it all means. At this point our tet-a-tet was interrupted by the return of Madame de Stemmer. Oh, la-la! she cried. The Colonel must have allowed himself to become too animative this evening. He is threatened with one of his attacks, and I have insisted upon his immediate retirement. He makes his apologies, but knows you will understand. I expressed my concern, and I was unaware that Colonel Menendez's health was impaired, I said. Ah, Madame shrugged characteristically. Juan has travelled too much on the road of life on top speed miss their nocks. She snapped her white fingers and grimaced significantly. Excitement is bad for him. She wheeled her chair up beside Val Beverly and taking the girl's hand padded it affectionately. You look pale to-night, my dear, she said. All this bogey business is getting on your nerves, eh? Oh, not at all, declared the girl. It is very mysterious and annoying, of course. But Miss your Paul Hallie will presently tell us what it is all about, concluded Madame. Yes, I trust so. We want no Cuban devils here at Craze for Lee. I had hoped that she would speak further of the matter, but having thus apologized for our host's absence, she plunged into an amusing account of Parisian society, and of the changes which five years of war had brought about. Her comments, although brilliant, were superficial. The only point I recollect being her reference to a certain Baron Bergman, a Swedish diplomat who, according to Madame, had the longest nose and the shortest memory in Paris, so that in the cold weather he even sometimes forgot to blow his nose. Her brightness, I thought, was almost feverish. She chattered and laughed and gesticulated, but on this occasion she was overacting. With all her vivacity lay something cold and grim. Hallie rejoined us in half an hour or so, but I could see that he was as conscious of the air of tension as I was. All Madame's high spirits could not enable her to conceal the fact that she was anxious to retire. But Hallie's evident desire to do likewise surprised me very greatly, for from the point of view of the investigation the day had been an unsatisfactory one. I knew that there must be a hundred and one things which my friend desired to know, questions which Madame de Stemmer could have answered. Nevertheless, at about ten o'clock we separated for the night, and although I was intensely anxious to talk to Hallie, his reticent mood had descended upon him again, and... Sleep well, Knox, he said, as he paused at my door. I may be awakening you early. With which cryptic remark, and not another word, he passed on and entered his own room. CHAPTER XI. THE SHADOW ON THE BLIND Perhaps it was childish on my part, but I accepted this curt dismissal very ill-humoredly. That Hallie, for some reason of his own, wished to be alone, was evident enough, but I resented being excluded from his confidence even temporarily. It would seem that he had formed a theory in the prosecution of which my cooperation was not needed. And what with profitless conjectures concerning its nature, and memories of Val Beverly's pathetic parting glance as we had bade one another good night, Sleep seemed to be out of the question, and I stood for a long time staring out of the open window. The weather remained almost tropically hot, and the moon floated in a cloudless sky. I looked down upon the closely matted leaves of the box-edge, which rose to within a few feet of my window, and to the left I could obtain a view of the close-hemmed courtyard before the doors of craze folly. On the right the use began, obstructing my view of the Tudor Garden, but the night air was frequent and the outlook one of peace. After a time then, as no sound came from the adjoining room, I turned in and, despite all things, was soon fast asleep. Almost immediately it seemed I was awakened, in point of fact nearly four hours had elapsed. A hand grasped my shoulder and I sprang up in bed with a stifled cry, but— It's all right, Knox, came Harley's voice. Don't make a noise. Harley, I said. Harley, what has happened? Nothing, nothing. I am sorry to have to disturb your beauty sleep, but in the absence of Innis I am compelled to use you as a dictaphone, Knox. I like to record impressions while they are fresh, hence my having awakened you. But what has happened, I asked again, for my brain was not yet fully alert. No, don't light up, said Harley, grasping my wrist as I reached out toward the table-lamp. His figure showed a black silhouette against the dim square of the window. Why not? Well, it's nearly two o'clock. The light might be observed. Two o'clock, I exclaimed. Yes, I think we might smoke, though. Have you any cigarettes? I have left my pipe behind. I managed to find my case, and in the dim light of the match, which I presently struck, I saw that Paul Harley's face was very fixed and grim. He seated himself on the edge of my bed, and— I have been guilty of a breach of hospitality, Knox, he began. Not only have I secretly had my own car sent down here, but I have had something else sent as well. I brought it in under my coat this evening. To what do you refer, Harley? You remember this silken rope ladder with bamboo rungs which I brought from Hong Kong on one occasion? Yes? Well, I have it in my bag now. But, my dear fellow, what possible use can it be to you at Craze Folly? It has been of great use, he returned shortly. It enabled me to descend from my window a couple of hours ago and to return again quite recently without disturbing the household. Don't reproach me, Knox. I know it is a breach of confidence, but so is the behaviour of Colonel Menendez. You refer to his reticence on certain points? I do. I have a reputation to lose, Knox, and if an ingenious piece of Chinese workmanship can save it, it shall be saved. But, my dear Harley, why should you want to leave the house secretly at night? Paul Harley's cigarette glowed in the dark, again. My original object, he replied, was to endeavour to learn if any one were really watching the place. For instance, I wanted to see if all lights were out at the guest-house. And were they, I asked eagerly? They were. Secondly, he continued, I wanted to convince myself that there were no nocturnal prowlers from within or without. What do you mean by within or without? Listen, Knox, he bent toward me in the dark, grasping my shoulder firmly. One window in Cray's folly was lighted up. At what hour? The light is there yet. That he was about to make some strange revelation, I divined. I detected the fact, too, that he believed this revelation would be unpleasant to me, and in this I found an explanation of his earlier behaviour. He had seemed distraught and illidease when he had joined Madame de Stemmer, Miss Beverly, and myself in the drawing-room. I could only suppose that this and the abrupt parting with me outside my door had been due to his holding a theory which he had proposed to put to the test before confining it to me. I remembered that he spoke very slowly as I asked him the question... Whose is the lighted window, Harley? Has Colonel Menendez taken you into a little snuggery or smoke-room which faces his bedroom in the southeast corner of the house? No, but Miss Beverly has mentioned the room. Ah! Well, there is a light in that room, Knox. Possibly the Colonel has not retired. According to Madame de Stemmer he went to bed several hours ago, you may remember. True, I murmured, fumbling for the significance of his words. The next point is, he resumed, you saw Madame retire to her own room, which, as you know, is on the ground floor, and I have satisfied myself that the door communicating with the servant's wing is locked. I see. But what is all this leading, Harley? To a very curious fact, and the fact is this. The Colonel is not alone. I sat bolt upright. What, I cried? Not so loud, warned Harley. But, Harley, my dear fellow, we must face facts. I repeat, the Colonel is not alone. Why do you say so? Twice I have seen a shadow on the blind of the smoke-room. His own shadow, probably. Again, Paul Harley's cigarette glowed in the darkness. I am prepared to swear, he replied, that it was the shadow of a woman. Harley, don't get excited, Knox. I am dealing with the strangest case of my career, and I am jumping to no conclusions. But just let us look at the circumstances judicially. The whole of the domestic staff we may dismiss, with the one exception of Mrs. Fisher, who, so far as I can make out, occupies the position of a sort of working housekeeper, and whose rooms are in the corner of the West Wing immediately facing the kitchen garden. Possibly you have not met Mrs. Fisher, Knox, but I have made it my business to interview the whole of the staff, and I may say that Mrs. Fisher is a short, stout old lady, a native of Kent, I believe, whose outline in no way corresponds to that which I saw upon the blind. Therefore, unless the door which communicates with the conference quarters was unlocked again to-night, to what are we reduced in seeking to explain the presence of a woman in Colonel Menenzes's room? Madame de Stemmer, unassisted, could not possibly have mounted the stairs. Stop, Harley, I said sternly, stop! He ceased speaking, and I watched the steady glow of his cigarette in the darkness. It lighted up his bronzed face and showed me the steely gleam of his eyes. You are counting too much on the locking of the door by Pedro, I continued, speaking very deliberately. He is a man I would trust no farther than I could see him, and if there is anything dark underlying this matter, you depend that he is involved in it. But the most natural explanation, and also the most simple, is this. Colonel Menenzes has been taken seriously ill, and someone is in his room in the capacity of a nurse. Her behaviour was scarcely that of a nurse in a sick room, murmured Harley. For God's sake, tell me the truth, I said. Tell me all you saw. I am quite prepared to do so, Knox. On three occasions then I saw the figure of a woman who wore some kind of loose robe quite clearly silhouetted upon the linen blind. Her gesture strongly resembled those of despair. Of despair? Exactly. I gathered that she was addressing someone, presumably Colonel Menenzes, and I derived a strong impression that she was in a condition of abject despair. Harley, I said, on your word of honour did you recognise anything in the movements or in the outline of the figure by which you identified the woman? I did not, he replied shortly. It was a woman who wore some kind of loose robe, possibly a kimono. Beyond that I could swear to nothing, except that it was not Mrs. Fisher. We fell silent for a while. But Paul Harley's thoughts may have been I know not, but my own were strange and troubled. Presently I found my voice again, and... I think, Harley, I said, that I should report to you something which Miss Beverly told me this evening. Yes, he said eagerly. I am anxious to hear anything which may be of the slightest assistance. You are no doubt wondering why I retired so abruptly tonight. My reason was this. I could see that you were full of some story which you had learned from Miss Beverly, and I was anxious to perform my tour of inspection with a perfectly unprejudiced mind. You mean that your suspicions rested upon an inmate of Craze Folly? Not upon any particular inmate, but I had early perceived a distinct possibility that these manifestations of which the Colonel complained might be due to the agency of someone inside the house. That this person might be no more than an accomplice of the prime mover I also recognised, of course. But what did you learn to night, Knox? I repeated Val Beverly's story of the mysterious footsteps and of the Craze which had twice awakened her in the night. Hmm... muttered Harley when I had ceased speaking. Assuming her account to be true... Why should you doubt it? I interrupted hotly. My dear Knox, it is my business to doubt everything until I have indisputable evidence of its truth. I say, assuming her story to be true, we find ourselves face to face with the fantastic theory that some woman unknown is living secretly in Craze Folly. Perhaps in one of the tower rooms I suggested eagerly. Why, Harley, that would account for the Colonel's market unwillingness to talk about this part of the house. My sight was now becoming used to the dusk and I saw Harley vigorously shake his head. No, no, he replied, I have seen all the tower rooms. I can swear that no one inhabits them. Besides, is it feasible? Then whose were the footsteps that Miss Beverly heard? Obviously, those of the woman who, at this present moment, so far as I know, is in the smoky room with Colonel Menendez. I sighed wearily. This is strange business, Harley. I begin to think that the mystery is darker than I ever supposed. We fell silent again. The weird cry of a night-hawk came from somewhere in the valley, but otherwise everything within and without the great house seemed strangely still. This stillness presently imposed its influence upon me, for when I spoke again I spoke in a low voice. Harley, I said, my imagination is playing me tricks. I thought I heard the fluttering of wings at that moment. Fortunately, my imagination remains under control, he replied grimly. Therefore, I am in a position to inform you that you did hear the fluttering of wings. An owl has just flown into one of the trees immediately outside the window. Oh, said I, and uttered a sigh of relief. It is extremely fortunate that my imagination is so carefully trained, continued Harley. Otherwise, when the woman whose shadow I saw upon the blind tonight raised her arms in a peculiar fashion, I could not well have failed to attach undue importance to the shape of the shadow thus created. What was the shape of the shadow then? Remarkably, like that of a bat. He spoke the words quietly, but in that still darkness, with dawn yet a long way off, they possessed the power which belongs to certain chords in music and to certain lines in poetry. I was chilled unaccountably, and I peepled the empty corridors of craze folly with I know not what uncanny creatures. Nightmare fancies conjured up from memories of haunted manners. Such was my mood then when suddenly Paul Harley stood up. My eyes were growing more and more used to the darkness, and from something strained in his attitude I detected the fact that he was listening intently. He placed his cigarette on the table beside the bed and quietly crossed the room. I knew from his silent tread that he wore shoes with rubber soles. Very quietly he turned the handle and opened the door. What is it, Harley? I whispered. Dimly I saw him raise his hand. Inch by inch he opened the door. My nerves were in a state of tension. I sat there watching him, when, without a sound, he slipped out of the room and was gone. Thereupon I rose and followed as far as the doorway. Harley was standing immediately outside in the corridor. Seeing me, he stepped back and— Don't move, Knox! he said, speaking very close to my ear. There is someone downstairs in the hall. Wait for me here. With that he moved stealthily off, and I stood there, my heart beating with unusual rapidity, listening, listening for a challenge, a cry, a scuffle. I knew not what to expect. Cavernous and dimly lighted, the corridor stretched away to my left. On the right it branched sharply in the direction of the gallery overlooking the hall. The seconds passed, but no sound supported my alert listening. Until, very faintly, but echoing in a muffled, churchlike fashion around that peculiar building came a slight, almost sibilant sound which I took to be the gentle closing of a distant door. Whilst I was still wondering if I had really heard this sound or merely imagined it, Who goes there? came sharply in Harley's voice. I heard a faint click and knew that he had shown the light of an torch down into the hall. I hesitated no longer but ran along to join him. As I came to the head of the main staircase however, I saw him crossing the hall below. He was making in the direction of the door which shut off the servants' quarters. Here he paused, and I saw him try the handle. Evidently the door was locked, for he turned and swept the white ray all about the place. He tried several other doors, but found them all to be locked, for presently he came upstairs again, smiling grimly when he saw me there awaiting him. Did you hear it, Knox? he said. A sound like the closing of a door? Paul Harley nodded. It was the closing of a door, he replied, but before that I had distinctly heard a stair-creek. Someone crossed the hall then, Knox, yet as you perceive for yourself it affords no hiding place. His glance met and challenged mine. The Colonel's visitor has left him, he murmured. Unless something quite unforeseen occurs, I shall throw up the case to-morrow. CHAPTER XII. MORNING MISTS The man known as Manuel awakened me in the morning. Although characteristically Spanish, he belonged to a more sanguine type than the butler and spoke much better English than Pedro. He placed upon the table beside me a tray containing a small pot of china tea, an apple, a peach, and three slices of toast. How soon would you like your bath, sir? he inquired. In about half an hour, I replied. Breakfast is served at nine-thirty if you wish, sir, continued Manuel, but the ladies rarely come down. Would you prefer to breakfast in your room? What is Mr. Harley doing? He tells me that he does not take breakfast, sir. Colonel Don Juan Menendez would be unable to ride with you this morning, but the groom will accompany you to the heat if you wish, which is the best place for a gallop. Breakfast on the south veranda is very pleasant, sir, if you are riding first. Good, I replied, for indeed I felt strangely heavy. It shall be the heat, then, and breakfast on the veranda. Having drunk a cup of tea and dressed I went into Harley's room, to find him propped up in bed reading the Daily Telegraph and smoking a cigarette. I'm off for a ride, I said. Won't you join me? He fixed his pillows more comfortably and slowly shook his head. Not a bit of it, Knox, he replied, I find exercise to be fatal to concentration. I know you have weird theories on the subject, but this is a beautiful morning. I grant you the beautiful morning, Knox, but here you will find me when you return. I knew him too well to debate the point, and accordingly I left him to his newspaper and cigarette and made my way downstairs. A housemate was busy in the hall and in the courtyard before the monastic porch a negro groom awaited me with two fine mounts. He touched his hat and grinned expansively as I appeared. A spirited young chestnut was saddled for my use, and the groom, who informed me that his name was Jim, rode a smaller Spanish horse, a beautiful but rather wicked-looking creature. We proceeded down the drive. Pedro was standing at the door of the lodge, talking to his surly-looking daughter. He saluted me very ceremoniously as I passed. Pursuing an easterly route for a quarter of a mile or so, we came to a narrow lane which branched off to the left in a tremendous declivity. Indeed, it presented the appearance of the dry bed of a mountain torrent, and in wet weather a torrent this lane became, so I was informed by Jim. It was very rugged and dangerous, and here we dismounted, the groom leading the horses. Then we were upon a well-laid main road, and along this we trotted on to a tempting stretch of heathland. There was a heavy mist, but the scent of the heather in the early morning was delightful, and there was something exhilarating in the dull thud of the hoofs upon the springy turf. The negro was a natural horseman, and he seemed to enjoy the ride every bit as much as I did. For my own part I was sorry to return. But the vapours of the night had been effectively cleared from my mind, and when presently we headed again for the hills I could think more coolly of those problems which overnight had seemed well nigh insoluble. We returned by a less direct route, but only at one point was the path so steep as that by which we had descended. This brought us out on a road above and about a mile to the south of Craze Folly. At one point, through a gap in the trees, I found myself looking down at the gray stone building in its setting of velvet lawns and gaily pattern gardens. A faint mist hovered like smoke over the grass. Five minutes later we passed a queer old Jacobian house, so deeply hidden amidst trees that the early morning sun had not yet penetrated to it except for one upstanding gable which was bathed in golden light. I should never have recognized the place from that aspect, but because of its situation I knew that this must be the guest-house. It seemed very gloomy and dark, and remembering how I was pledged to call upon Mr. Cullen Camber that day, I apprehended that my reception might be a cold one. Finally we left the road and cantered across the valley meadows in which I had walked on the previous day, re-entering Craze Folly on the south, although we had left it on the north. We dismounted in the stable-yard, and I noted two other saddle-horses in the stalls, a pair of very clean-looking hunters as well as two perfectly matched ponies, which, Jim informed me, Madame de Stemmer sometimes drove in a chaise. Being vastly improved by the exercise I walked around to the veranda and through the drawing-room to the hall. Manuel was standing there and, your bath is ready, sir, he said. I nodded and went upstairs. It seemed to me that life at Craze Folly was quite agreeable, and such was my mood that the shadowy bat-wing menace found no place in it save as the chimera of a sick man's imagination. One thing only troubled me, the identity of the woman who had been with Colonel Menendez on the previous night. However, such unconscious sun-worshipers are we all, that in the glory of that summer morning I realized that life was good and I resolutely put behind me the dark suspicions of the night. I looked into Harley's room ere descending, and as he had assured me would be the case, there he was, propped up in the bed, the daily telegraph upon the floor beside him, and the times now open upon the coverlet. I am ravenously hungry, I said maliciously, and am going down to eat a hearty breakfast. Good! he returned, treating me to one of his quizzical smiles. It is delightful to know that someone is happy. Manuel had removed my unopened newspapers from the bedroom, placing them on the breakfast-table on the south veranda, and I had propped the mail up before me and had commenced to explore a juicy grave-fruit when something, perhaps a faint breath of perfume, a slight rustle of draperies, or merely that indefinable aura which belongs to the presence of a woman, drew my glance upward and to the left, and there was Val Beverly smiling down at me. Good morning, Mr. Knox, she said. Oh, please, don't interrupt your breakfast. May I sit down and talk to you? I should be most annoyed if you refused. She was dressed in a simple, summery frock which left her round, sun-browned arms bare above the elbow, and she laid a huge bunch of roses upon the table beside my tray. I am the florist of the establishment, she explained. These will delight your eyes at luncheon. Don't you think we are a lot of barbarians here, Mr. Knox? Why? Well, if I had not taken pity upon you, here you would have bat over a lonely breakfast just as though you were staying at a hotel. Delightful, I replied, now that you are here. Ah, said she, and smiled roguishly. That afterthought just saved you. But honestly, I continued, the hospitality of Colonel Menendez is true hospitality. To expect one's guests to perform their parter-tricks around a breakfast-table in the morning is, on the other hand, true barbarism. I quite agree with you, she said quietly. There is a perfectly delightful freedom about the Colonel's way of living. Only some horrid old Victorian prude could possibly take exception to it. Did you enjoy your ride? Immensely, I replied, watching her delightedly as she arranged the roses in carefully blended groups. Her fingers were very delicate and tactile, and such is the character which resides in the human hand, that whereas the gestures of Madame de Stemmer were curiously stimulating, there was something in the movement of Val Beverly's pretty fingers amidst the blooms which I found most soothing. I've passed the guest-house on my return, I continued. Do you know Mr. Camber? She looked at me in a startled way. No, she replied, I don't, do you? I met him by chance yesterday. Really, I thought he was quite unapproachable, a sort of ogre. On the contrary, he is a man of great charm. Oh, said Val Beverly, well, since you have said so, I might as well admit that he has always seemed a very charming man to me. I have never spoken to him, but he looks as though he could be very fascinating. Have you met his wife? No. Is she also American? My companion shook her head. I have no idea, she replied. I have seen her several times, of course, and she is one of the daintiest creatures imaginable, but I know nothing about her nationality. She is young, then. Very young, I should say. She looks quite a child. The reason of my interest, I replied, is that Mr. Camber asked me to call upon him, and I proposed to do so later this morning. Really? Again I detected the startled expression upon Val Beverly's face. That is rather curious, since you are staying here. Why? Well, she looked about her nervously. I don't know the reason, but the name of Mr. Camber is anathema in craze folly. Colonel Menendez told me last night that he had never met Mr. Camber. Val Beverly shrugged her shoulders, a habit which it was easy to see she had acquired from Madame de Stemmer. Perhaps not, she replied, but I am certain he hates him. Hates Mr. Camber? Yes, her expression grew troubled. It is another of those mysteries which seem to be part of Colonel Menendez's normal existence. And is this dislike mutual? That I cannot say, since I have never met Mr. Camber. And Madame de Stemmer, does she share it? Bully, I think, but don't ask me what it means, because I don't know. She dismissed the subject with a light gesture and poured me out a second cup of coffee. I am going to leave you now, she said. I have to justify my existence in my own eyes. Must you really go? I must, really. Then tell me something before you go. She gathered up the bunches of roses and looked down at me with a wistful expression. Yes, what is it? Did you detect those mysterious footsteps again last night? The look of wistfulness changed to another which I hated to see in her eyes, an expression of repressed fear. No, she replied in a very low voice. But why do you ask the question? Doubt of her had been far enough from my mind, but that something in the tone of my voice had put her on guard I could see. I am naturally curious, I replied gravely. No, she repeated. I have not heard the sound for some time now. Perhaps after all, my fears were imaginary. There was a constraint in her manner which was all too obvious, and when presently, laden with the spoil of the rose garden, she gave me a parting smile and hurried into the house, I sat there very still for a while, and something of the brightness had faded from the coming, nor did life seem so glad of business as I had thought it quite recently.