 Part 5 of BATWING by Sax Romer, read by Mark Nelson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. BATWING CHAPTER XIII. AT THE GUEST HOUSE. I presented myself at the guest house at half-past eleven. My mental state was troubled and indescribably complex. Perhaps my own uneasy thoughts were responsible for the idea, but it seemed to me that the atmosphere of craze folly had changed yet again. Never before had I experienced a sense of foreboding like that which had possessed me throughout the hours of this bright summer's morning. Colonel Menendez had appeared about nine o'clock. He exhibiting no traces of illness that were perceptible to me. But this subtle change which I had detected, or thought I had detected, was more marked in Madame Stemmer than in any one. In her strange still eyes I had read what I can only describe as a stricken look. It had none of the heroic resignation and acceptance of the inevitable which had so startled me in the face of the Colonel on the previous day. There was a bitterness in it, as of one who was made a great but unwilling sacrifice, and again I had found myself questing that faint but fugitive memory conjured up by the eyes of Madame Stemmer. Never had the shadow lain so darkly upon this house as it lay this morning with the sun blazing gladly out of a serene sky. The birds, the flowers, and Mother Earth herself bespoke the joy of summer. But beneath the roof of craze folly dwelt a spirit of unrest, of apprehension. I thought of that queer lull which comes before a tropical storm, and I thought I read a knowledge of pending evil even in the glances of the servants. I had spoken to Harley of this fear. He had smiled and nodded grimly, saying, evidently, Knox, you have forgotten that tonight is the night of the full moon. It was in no easy state of mind then that I opened the gate and walked up to the porch of the guest-house. That the solution of the grand mystery of craze folly would automatically resolve these lesser mysteries I felt assured, and I was supported by the idea that a clue might lie here. The house, which from the roadway had an air of neglect, proved on close inspection to be well-tended, but of an unprosperous aspect. The brass knocker, doorknob, and letterbox were brilliantly polished, whilst the windows and the window curtains were spotlessly clean. What the place cried aloud for the service of the decorator, and it did not need the deductive powers of Appal Harley to determine that Mr. Cullen Camber was in straightened circumstances. In response to my ringing the door was presently opened by oddsong. His yellow face exhibited no trace of emotion whatever. He merely opened the door and stood there looking at me. Is Mr. Camber at home, I inquired? Master Nogat, crewed oddsong. He proceeded quietly to close the door again. One moment, I said, one moment, I wish at any rate to leave my card. oddsong allowed the door to remain open, but... No use apalaba, no fashion, he said, no fella, comey here, savvy? I savvy, right enough, I said, but all the same you've got to take my card into Mr. Camber. I handed him a card as I spoke, and suddenly, addressing him in pigeon of which, fortunately, I had a smattering. Belong very quick, oddsong, I said sharply, or plenty big trouble, savvy? Savvy, savvy, he muttered, nodding his head, and leaving me standing in the porch he retired along the sparsely carpeted hall. This hall was very gloomily lighted, but I could see several pieces of massive old furniture and a number of bookcases, all looking incredibly untidy. Rather less than a minute elapsed, I suppose, when from some place at the farther end of the hallway Mr. Camber appeared in person. He wore a threadbare dressing-gown, the silken collar and cuffs of which were badly frayed. His hair was disheveled, and palpably he had not shaved this morning. He was smoking a corn cob pipe, and he slowly approached, glancing from the card which he held in his hand in my direction, and then back again at the card, with a curious sort of hesitancy. In spite of his untidy appearance I could not fail to mark the dignity of his bearing and the almost arrogant angle at which he held his head. Mr. or Malcolm Knox, he began, fixing his large eyes upon me with a look in which I could detect no sign of recognition. I am advised that you desire to see me. That is so, Mr. Camber," I replied cheerily. I fear I have interrupted your work, but as no other opportunity may occur of renewing an acquaintance, which, for my part, I found extremely pleasant. "'Of renewing an acquaintance,' you say, Mr. Knox? Yes. Quite." He looked me up and down critically. You be sure we have met before, I understand? We met yesterday, Mr. Camber, you may recall. Having chance to come across a contribution of yours of the occult review, I have availed myself of your invitation to drop in for a chat." His expression changed immediately, and the somber eyes lighted up. "'Ah, of course,' he cried. "'You are a student of the transcendental. Of my seeming rudeness, Mr. Knox, but indeed, my memory is of the poorest. Pray come in, sir, your visit is very welcome." He held the door wide open and inclined his head in a gesture of curious old-world courtesy, which was strange in so young a man. And congratulating myself upon the happy thought which had enabled me to win such instant favor, I presently found myself in a study which I despair of describing. In some respects it resembled the lumber-room of an antiquary, whilst in many particulars it corresponded to the interior of one of those second-hand bookshops which abound in the neighborhood of Charing Cross Road. The shelves with which it was lined literally bulged with books, and there were books on the floor, books on the mantelpiece, and books, some open and some shut, some handsomely bound, and some having the covers torn off, upon every table and nearly every chair in the place. Volume 7 of Burton's monumental Thousand Nights and a Night lay upon a littered desk before which I presumed Mr. Camber had been seated at the time of my arrival. Some wet vessel, probably a cup of tea or coffee, had at some time been set down upon the page at which this volume was open, for it was marked with a dark brown ring. A volume of Fraser's golden bow had been used as an ashtray, apparently, since the binding was burned in several places where cigarettes had been laid upon it. In this interesting, indeed unique apartment, east met west, unabashed by Kipling's dictum. Even tear vases and Egyptian tomb offerings stood upon the same shelf as empty bass-bottles, and a hideous wooden idol from the South Sea Islands leered on eternally, unmoved by the presence upon its distorted head of a soft felt hat made, I believe, in Philadelphia. Strange implements from early British barrows found themselves in the company of thuggy daggers. There were carved mammals tusks and snake emblems from the Yucatan. Against a Chinese ivory model of the Temple of Ten Thousand Buddhas rested acoptic crucifix made from a twig of the holy rose-tree. Across an ancient Spanish coffer was thrown a Persian rug into which had been woven the monogram of Shah Jahan and the text from the Koran. It was easy to see that Mr. Cullen Camber's studies must have imposed a severe strain upon his purse. "'Sit down, Mr. Knox, sit down,' he said, sweeping a vellum-bound volume of Eliphaz Levi from a chair and pushing the chair forward. "'The visit of a fellow student is a rare pleasure for me. And you find me, sir?' he seated himself in a curious, carved chair, which stood before the desk. You find me engaged upon inquiries, the result of which will constitute Chapter 42 of my present book. Pray glance at the contents of this little box.' He placed in my hands a small box of dark wood, evidently of great age. It contained what looked like a number of shriveled beans. Having glanced at it curiously I returned it to him, shaking my head blankly. "'You are puzzled,' he said, with a kind of boyish triumph which lighted up his face, which rejuvenated him and gave me a glimpse of another man. "'These, sir,' he touched the shriveled objects with a long, delicate forefinger, "'are seeds of the sacred lotus of ancient Egypt. They were found in the tomb of a priest.' "'And in what way do they bear upon the inquiry to which you referred, Mr. Camber?' "'In this way,' he replied, drawing toward him a piece of newspaper upon which rested a mound of coarse shag. "'I maintain that the vital principle survives within them. Now, I propose to cultivate these seeds, Mr. Knox. Do you grasp the significance of this experiment?' He knocked out the corn cob upon the heel of his slipper and began to refill the hot bowl with shag from the newspaper at his elbow. "'From a physical point of view, yes,' I replied slowly. "'But I should not have supposed such an experiment to come within the scope of your own particular activities, Mr. Camber.' "'Ah!' he returned triumphantly, at the same time stuffing tobacco into the bowl of the corn cob. "'It is for this very reason that Chapter 42 of my book must prove to be the hub of the whole, and the whole, Mr. Knox, I am egotist enough to believe, shall establish a new focus for thought, and intellectual Rome bestriding and uniting the seven hills of unbelief.' He lighted his pipe and stared at me complacently. Whilst I had greatly revised my first estimate of the man, my revisions had been all in his favour. Respecting his genius, my first impression was confirmed, that he was ahead of his generation, perhaps a new Galileo I was prepared to believe. He had a pride of bearing which I think was partly racial, but which in Part II was the insignia of intellectual superiority. He stood above the common place, caring little for the views of those around and beneath him. From vanity he was utterly free. His was strangely like the egotism of true genius. "'Now, sir,' he continued, puffing furiously at his corn cob, "'I observed you glancing a moment ago at this volume of the golden bow.' He pointed to the scarred book which I have already mentioned. It is a work of profound scholarship. But having perused its hundreds of pages, what has the student learned? Does he know why the 26th chapter of the Book of the Dead was written upon Lapis Lizzuli, the 27th upon Felspar, the 29th upon Cornelian, and the 30th upon Serpentine? He does not. Having studied Part IV, has he learned the secret of why Osiris was a black god, although he typified the sun? Has he learned why modern Christianity is losing its hold upon the nations, while its Buddhism, so-called, counts its disciples by millions? He has not. This is because the scholar is rarely the seer.' "'I quite agree with you,' I said, thinking that I detected the drift of his argument.' "'Very well,' said he. I am an American citizen, Mr. Knox, which is tantamount to stating that I belong to the greatest community of traders which has appeared since the Phoenicians overran the then-known world. America has not produced the mystic, yet Judea produced the founder of Christianity, and Gautama Buddha, born of a royal line, established the creed of human equity. In what way did these magicians, for a miracle worker as nothing but a magician, differ from ordinary men? In one respect only. They had learned to control that force which we have today, termed will. As he spoke those words, Cullen Camber directed upon me a glance from his luminous eyes which frankly thrilled me. The bemused figure of the lavender arms was forgotten. I perceived before me a man of power, a man of extraordinary knowledge and intellectual daring. His voice, which was very beautiful together with his glance, held me enthralled. What we call will, he continued, is what the ancient Egyptians called coup. It is not mental. It is a property of the soul. At this point, Mr. Knox, I depart from the laws generally accepted by my contemporaries. I shall presently propose to you that the eye of the divine architect literally watches every creature upon the earth. Literally? Literally, Mr. Knox. We need no images, no idols, no paintings. All power, all light comes from one source. That source is the sun. The sun controls will, and the will is the soul. If there were a cavern in the earth so deep that the sun could never reach it, and if it were possible for a child to be born in that cavern, do you know what that child would be? Almost certainly blind, I replied, beyond which my imagination fails me. Then I will inform you, Mr. Knox. It would be a demon. What! I cried, and was momentarily touched with the fear that this was a brilliant madman. Listen, he said, and pointed with the stem of his pipe. Why in all ancient creeds is Hades depicted as below? For the simple reason that could such a spot exist and be inhabited it must be sunless. Then it could only be inhabited by devils. And what are devils but creatures without souls? You mean that a child born beyond reach of the sun's influence would have no soul? Such is my meaning, Mr. Knox. Do you begin to see the importance of my experiment with the lotus seeds? I shook my head slowly, whereupon, laying his cord cob upon the desk, Colin Camber burst into a fit of boyish laughter, which seemed to rejuvenate him again, which wiped out the image of the mages completely, and only left before me a very human student of stream subjects, and with all a fascinating companion. I fear, sir, he said presently, that my steps have led me farther into the wilderness than it has been your fate to penetrate. The whole secret of the universe is contained in the words day and night, darkness and light. I have studied both the light and the darkness, deliberately and without fear. A new age is about to dawn, sir, and a new age requires new beliefs, new truths. Were you ever in the country of the hill-diacs? This abrupt question rather startled me, but you refer to the Borneo hill-country. Precisely. No, I was never there. Then this little magical implement will be new to you, said he. Standing up he crossed to a cabinet littered untidily with all sorts of strange-looking objects, carved bones, queer little inlaid boxes, images, untidy manuscripts, and what not. He took up what looked like a very ungainly tobacco-pipe made of some rich brown wood and handing it to me. Examine this, Mr. Knox, he said with the boyish smile of triumph returning again to his face. I did as he requested and made no discovery of note. The thing clearly was not intended for a rape. The stem was soiled, and moreover there was carving inside the bowl. So that presently I returned it to him, shaking my head. Unless one should be informed of the properties of this little instrument, he declared, discovery by experiment is improbable. Now note. He struck the hollow of the bowl upon the palm of his hand and it delivered a high, bell-like note which lingered curiously. Note again. He made a short striking motion with the thing, similar to that which one would employ who had designed to jerk something out of the bowl. And at the very spot on the floor where any object contained in the bowl would have fallen came a reprise of the bell-note, clearly from almost at my feet it sounded a high metallic ring. He struck upward and the bell-note sounded on the ceiling, to the right, and it came from the window, in my direction, and the tiny bell seemed to ring beside my ear. I will honestly admit that I was startled, but... Diak magic, said Cullen Camber, one of nature's secrets not yet discovered by conventional Western science. It was known to the Egyptian priesthood, of course, hence the vocal memnon. It was known to Madame Blavatsky, who employed an astral bell, and it is known to me. He returned the little instrument to its place upon the cabinet. I wonder if the fact will strike you as significant, said he, that the note which you have just heard can only be produced between sunrise and sunset. Without giving me time to reply, the most notable survival of black magic, that is, the scientific employment of darkness against light, is to be met with in Haiti and other islands of the West Indies. You are referring to voodooism, I said slowly. He nodded, replacing his pipe between his teeth. A subject, Mr. Knox, which I investigated exhaustively some years ago. I was watching him closely as he spoke, and a shadow, a strange shadow crept over his face, a look almost of exaltation, of mingled sorrow and gladness which I find myself quite unable to describe. In the West Indies, Mr. Knox, he continued, in a strange altered voice. I lost all and found all. Have you ever realized, sir, that sorrow is the price we must pay for joy? I did not understand his question, and was still wondering about it when I heard a gentle knock the door opened, and a woman came in. CHAPTER XIV ESOLA CAMBER I find it difficult now to recapture my first impression of that meeting. About the woman, hesitating before me, there was something unexpected, something wholly unfamiliar. She belonged to a type with which I was not acquainted. Nor was it wonderful that she should strike me in this fashion, since my wanderings, although fairly extensive, had never included the West Indies, nor had I been to Spain. And this girl, I could have sworn that she was under twenty, was one of those rare beauties, a golden Spaniard. That she was not purely Spanish, I learned later. She was small and girlishly slight, with slender ankles and exquisite little feet. Indeed, I think she had the tiniest feet of any woman I had ever met. She wore a sort of white pinafore over her dress, and her arms, which were bare because of the short sleeves of her frock, were of a childlike roundness, whilst her creamy skin was touched with a faint tinge of bronze, as though, I remember thinking, it had absorbed and retained something of the Southern Sunshine. She had the swaying carriage which usually belongs to a tall woman, and her head and neck were Grecian in poise. Her hair, which was of a curious dull gold color, presented a mass of thick, tight curls, and her beauty was of that unusual character which makes a Cleopatra a subject of deathless debate. What I mean to say is this. Whilst no man could have denied, for instance, that Val Beverly was a charmingly pretty woman, nine critics out of ten must have failed to classify this golden Spaniard correctly or justly. Her complexion was peach-like in the Oriental sense, that strange hint of gold underlying the delicate skin, and her dark blue eyes were shaded by really wonderful silken lashes. Emotion had the effect of enlarging the pupils, a phenomenon rarely met with, so that now as she entered the room and found a stranger present they seemed to be rather black than blue. Her embarrassment was acute and I think she would have retired without speaking, but— Ae Sola, said Cullen Camber, regarding her with a look curiously compounded of sorrow and pride. Allow me to present Mr. Malcolm Knox, who has honored us with a visit. He turned to me. Mr. Knox, he said, it gives me great pleasure that you should meet my wife. Perhaps I had expected this, indeed, subconsciously. I think I had. Nevertheless, at the words, my wife, I felt that I started. The analogy with Edgar Allan Poe was complete. As Mrs. Camber extended her hand with a sort of appealing timidity, it appeared to me that she felt herself to be intruding. The expression in her beautiful eyes when she glanced at her husband could only be described as one of adoration. And whilst it was impossible to doubt his love for her, I wondered if his colossal egotism were capable of stooping to affection. I wondered if he knew how to tend and protect this delicate Southern girl wife of his. Remembering the episode of the Lavender Arms, I felt justified in doubting her happiness, and in this I saw an explanation of the mingled sorrow and pride with which Cullen Camber regarded her. It might be betoken recognition of his own shortcomings as a husband. How nice of you to come and see us, Mr. Knox, she said. She spoke in a faintly husky manner which was curiously attractive, although lacking the deep, vibrant tones of Madame Distemmer's memorable voice. Her English was imperfect, but her accent good. Your husband has been carrying me to enchanted lands, Mrs. Camber, I replied. I have never known a morning to pass so quickly. Oh! she replied, and laughed with a childish glee which I was glad to witness. Did he tell you all about the book which was going to make the world good? Did he tell you it would make us rich as well? Rich! said Camber, frowning slightly. Nature's riches are health and love. If we hold these the rest will come. Now that you have joined us, Hisola, I shall beg Mr. Knox, in honor of this occasion, to drink a glass of wine and break a biscuit as a pledge of future meetings. I watched him as he spoke, a lean, unkempt figure invested with a curious dignity, and I found it almost impossible to believe that this was the same man who had sat in the bar of the lavender arms, sipping whiskey and water. The resemblance to the portrait in Harley's office became more marked than ever. There was an air of high-breeding about the delicate features, which, curiously enough, was accentuated by the unshaven chin. I recognized that refusal would be regarded as rebuff, and therefore, You are very kind, I said. Colin Camber inclined his head gravely and courteously. We are very glad to have you with us, Mr. Knox, he replied. He clapped his hands, and silent as a shadow, ought song appeared. I noted that although it was Camber who had summoned him, it was to Mrs. Camber that the Chinaman turned for orders. I had thought his yellow face incapable of expression, but as his oblique eyes turned in the direction of the girl, I read in them a sort of dumb worship, such as one sees in the eyes of a dog. She spoke to him rapidly in Chinese. Hoi hoi, he muttered, hoi hoi, nodded his head and went out. I saw that Colin Camber had detected my interest for— Ought song is really my wife, servant, he explained. Oh, she said in a low voice, and looked at me earnestly. Ought song nursed me when I was a little baby, so high. She held her hand about four feet from the floor and laughed gleefully. Can you imagine what a funny little thing I was? You must have been a wonder, child, Mrs. Camber, I replied with sincerity, and Ought song has remained with you ever since? Ever since, she echoed, shaking her head in a vaguely pathetic way. He will never leave me, do you think, Colin? Never, replied her husband, you are all he loves in the world. A case, Mr. Knox, he turned to me, of deathless fidelity rarely met with nowadays, and only possible perhaps in its true form in an oriental. Mrs. Camber, having seated herself upon one of the few chairs which was not piled with books, her husband had resumed his place by the writing desk, and I sought in vain to interpret the glances which passed between them. The fact that these two were lovers none could have mistaken. But here again, as at craze folly, I detected a shadow. I felt that something had struck at the very root of their happiness. In fact, I wondered if they had been parted, and were but newly reunited, for there was a sort of constraint between them, the more marked on the woman's side than on the man's. I wondered how long they had been married, but felt that it would have been indiscreet to ask. Even as the idea occurred to me, however, an opportunity arose of learning what I wished to know. I heard a bell ring, and There is someone at the door, Cullen, said Mrs. Camber. I will go, he replied. Odd song has enough to do. Without another word he stood up and walked out of the room. You see, said Mrs. Camber, smiling in her naïve way, we only have one servant, except Odd song, her name is Mrs. Powis. She is visiting her daughter who is married. We made the poor old lady take a holiday. It is difficult to imagine you're burdened with household responsibilities, Mrs. Camber, I replied. Please forgive me, but I cannot help wondering how long you have been married. For nearly four years. Really, I exclaimed, you must have been married very young? I was twenty. Do I look so young? I gazed at her in amazement. You astonish me, I declared, which was quite true and no mere compliment. I had guessed your age to be eighteen. Oh, she laughed, and resting her hands upon the satis, leaned forward with sparkling eyes. How funny! Sometimes I wish I looked older. It is dreadful in this place, although we have been so happy here. At all the shops they look at me so funny, so I always send Mrs. Powis now. You are really quite wonderful, I said. You are Spanish, are you not, Mrs. Camber? She slightly shook her head, and I saw the pupils begin to dilate. Not really Spanish, she replied, haltingly. I was born in Cuba. In Cuba, she nodded. Then it was in Cuba that you met Mr. Camber? She nodded again, watching me intently. It is strange that a Virginian should settle in Surrey. Yes, she murmured, you think so? But really, it is not strange at all. Colin's people are so proud, so proud. Do you know what they are like, those Virginians? Oh, I hate them. You hate them? No, I cannot hate them, for he is one, but he will never go back. Why should he never go back, Mrs. Camber? Because of me. You mean that you do not wish to settle in America? I could not. Not where he comes from. They would not have me. Her eyes grew misty, and she quickly lowered her lashes. Would not have you? I exclaimed. I don't understand. No, she said, and smiled up at me very gravely. It is simple. I am a Cuban, one as they say, of an inferior race, and of mixed blood. She shook her golden head as if to dismiss the subject and stood up, as Camber entered, followed by odd song bearing a tray of refreshments. Of the ensuing conversation I remember nothing. My mind was focused upon the one vital fact that Mrs. Camber was a Cuban creole. Dimly I felt that here was the missing link for which Paul Harley was groping. For it was in Cuba that Colin Camber had met his wife. It was from Cuba that the menace of Batwing came. What could it mean? Surely it was more than a coincidence that these two families, both associated with the West Indies, should reside within sight of one another in the Surrey Hills. Yet if it were the result of design, the design must go on the part of Colonel Menendez, since the Cambers had occupied the guesthouse before he at least crazed folly. I know not if I betrayed my absent mindiness during the time that I was struggling vainly with these maddening problems, but presently Mrs. Camber, having departed about her household duties, I found myself walking down the garden with her husband. This is the summer house of which I was speaking, Mr. Knox, he said, and I regret to state that I retain no impression of his having previously mentioned the subject. During the time that Sir James Appleton resided at Craze Folly, I worked here regularly in the summer months. It was Sir James, of course, who laid out the greater part of the gardens and who rescued the property from the state of decay into which it had fallen. I roused myself from the prophetess reverie in which I had become lost. We were standing before a sort of arbor which marked the end of the grounds of the guesthouse. It overhung the edge of a miniature ravine, in which, over a pebbly course, a little stream pursued its way down the valley to feed the lake in the grounds of Craze Folly. From this vantage point I could see the greater part of Colonel Menendez's residence. I had an unobstructed view of the tower and of the Tudor Garden. I abandoned my workshop, pursued Cullen Camber, when the—er, the new tenant took up his residence. I work now in the room in which you found me this morning. He sighed, and turning abruptly, led the way back to the house, holding himself very erect, and presenting a queer figure in his threadbare dressing-gown. It was now a perfect summer's day, and I commented upon the beauty of the old garden, which in places was bordered by a crumbling wall. Yes, a quaint old spot, said Camber. I thought at one time, because of the name of the house, that it might have been part of a monastery or convent. This was not the case, however. It derives its name from a certain Sir Jasper guest, who flourished, I believe, under King Charles of Merry Memory. Nevertheless, I added, the guest-house is a charming survival of more spacious days. True, returned Cullen Camber gravely. Here it is possible to lead one's own life away from the noisy world. He sighed again, wearily. Yes, I shall regret leaving the guest-house. What? You're leaving? I am leaving as soon as I can find another residence, suited both to my requirements and to my slender purse, but these domestic affairs can be of no possible interest to you. I take it, Mr. Knox, that you will grant my wife and myself the pleasure of your company at lunch? Many thanks, I replied, but really I must return to craze folly. As I spoke the words, I had moved a little ahead at a point where the path was overgrown by a rose-bush, for the garden was somewhat neglected. You will quite understand, I said and turned. Never can I forget the spectacle which I beheld. Cullen Camber's peculiarly pale complexion had assumed a truly ghastly pallor, and he stood with tightly clenched hands, glaring at me almost insanely. Mr. Camber, I cried with concern, are you unwell? He moistened his dry lips and... You are returning to craze folly? He said, speaking it seemed with difficulty. I am, sir, I am staying with Colonel Menendez. Ah! He clutched the collar of his pajama-jacket and rent so strongly that the button was torn off. His passion was incredible, insane. The power of speech had almost left him. You are a ghast of...of Devil Menendez, he whispered, and the speaking of the name seemed almost to choke him. Of Devil Menendez. You...you are a spy. You have stolen my hospitality. You have obtained access to my house under false pretenses. God, if I had known. Mr. Camber, I said sternly, and realized that I too had clenched my fists, for the man's language was grossly insulting. You forget yourself. Perhaps I do, he muttered thickly, and therefore he raised a quivering forefinger. Go! If you have any spark of compassion in your breast, go! Leave my house! Nostals dilated, he stood with that quivering finger outstretched, and now, having become as speechless as he, I turned and walked rapidly up to the house. Otsong! Otsong! came a cry from behind me in tones which I can only describe as hysterical. Mr. Knox's hat and stick, quickly! As I walked in past the study door the Chinaman came to meet me, holding my hat and cane. I took them from him without a word, and the door being held open by Otsong walked out on to the road. My heart was beating rapidly. I did not know what to think nor what to do. This ignominious dismissal afforded an experience new to me. I was humiliated, mortified, but above all wildly angry. How far I had gone on my homeward journey I cannot say, when the sound of quickly pattering footsteps intruded upon my wild reverie. I stopped, turned, and there was Otsong almost at my heels. Bling a chit from Lily Missy, he said, and held out the note toward me. I hesitated, glaring at him in a way that must have been very unpleasant. But recovering myself I tore open the envelope and read the following note, written in pencil and very shakily. Mr. Knox, please forgive him. If you knew what we have suffered from Sr. Dunwan Menendez I know you would forgive him. Please, for my sake. He sold a camber. The Chinaman was watching me, that strange pathetic expression in his eyes, and— Tell your mistress that I quite understand and will write to her, I said. Hoi-hoi! Otsong turned and ran swiftly off as I pursued my way back to Craze Folly in a mood which I shall not attempt to describe. Chapter 15 Unrest I sat in Paul Harley's room. Luncheon was over, and although as on the previous day it had been a perfect repast, perfectly served, the sense of tension which I had experienced throughout the meal had made me horribly ill at ease. The shadow of which I had spoken elsewhere seemed to have become almost palpable. In vain I had ascribed it to a morbid imagination. Persistently it lingered. Madame de Stemmer's Gaiety rang more false than ever. She twirled the rings upon her slender fingers and shot little inquiring glances all around the table. This spirit of unrest, from wherever it arose, had communicated itself to everybody. Madame's several bon-mose, one and all, were failures. She delivered them without conviction, like an amateur repeating lines learned by heart. The Colonel was unusually silent, eating little, but drinking much. There was something unreal, almost ghastly, about the whole affair. And when at last Madame de Stemmer retired, bearing Val Beverly with her, I felt certain that the Colonel would make some communication to us. If ever knowledge of portentious evil were written upon a man's face it was written upon his, as he sat there at the head of the table, staring straightly before him. However... Gentlemen, he said, if your inquiries here have led to no result of, shall I say, a tangible character, at least I feel sure that you must have realized one thing. Harley stared at him sternly. I have realized, Colonel Menendez, he replied, that something is pending. Ah, murmured the Colonel, and he clutched the edge of the table with his strong brown hands. But, continued my friend, I have realized something more. You have asked for my aid, and I am here. Now you have deliberately tied my hands. What do you mean, sir? asked the other softly. I will speak plainly. I mean that you know more about the nature of this danger than you have ever communicated to me. Allow me to proceed, if you please, Colonel Menendez. For your delightful hospitality I thank you. As your guest I could be happy, but as a professional investigator, whose services have been called upon under most unusual circumstances, I cannot be happy and I do not thank you. Their glances met. Both were angry, willful, and self-confident. Following a few moments of silence. Perhaps, Mr. Harley, said the Colonel, you have something further to say? I have this to say, was the answer. I esteem your friendship, but I fear I must return to town without delay. The Colonel's jaws were clenched so tightly that I could see the muscles protruding. He was fighting an inward battle, then— What, he said, you would desert me? I have never deserted any man who sought my aid. I have sought your aid. Then accept it, cried Harley, this or allow me to retire from the case. You ask me to find an enemy who threatens you and you withhold every clue which could aid me in my search. What clue have I withheld? Paul Harley stood up. It is useless to discuss the matter further, Colonel Menendez, he said coldly. The Colonel rose also, and— Mr. Harley, he replied, and his high voice was ill-controlled, if I give you my word of honour that I dare not tell you more, and if, having done so, I beg of you to remain at least another night, can you refuse me? Harley stood at the end of the table, watching him. Colonel Menendez, he said, this would appear to be a game in which my handicap rests on the fact that I do not know against whom I am pitted. Very well, you leave me no alternative but to reply that I will stay. I thank you, Mr. Harley. As I fear I am far from well, there I hope to be excused if I retire to my room for an hour's rest. Harley and I bowed, and the Colonel, returning our salutations, walked slowly out, his bearing one of grace and dignity. So that memorable luncheon terminated, and now we found ourselves alone, and faced with a problem which, from whatever point one viewed it, offered no single opening whereby one might hope to penetrate to the truth. Paul Harley was pacing up and down the room in a state of such nervous irritability as I never remember to have witnessed in him before. I had just finished an account of my visit to the guest-house, and of the indignity which had been put upon me, and— Canundrums, Canundrums, my friend exclaimed. This quest of the Batwing is like the quest of heaven, Knox. A hundred open doors invite us, each one promising to lead to the light, and if we enter, where do they lead? To mystification. For instance, Colonel Menendez has broadly hinted that he looks upon Cullen Camber as an enemy. Judging from your reception at the guest-house today, such an enmity, and a deadly enmity, actually exists. But whereas Camber has resided here for three years, the Colonel is a newcomer. We are, therefore, offered the spectacle of a trembling victim seeking the sacrifice. Bah! It is preposterous. If you had seen Cullen Camber's face today, you might not have thought it so preposterous. But I should, Knox. I should. It is impossible to suppose that Colonel Menendez was unaware when he leased craze-falling that Camber occupied the guest-house. And Mrs. Camber is a Cuban, I murmured. Don't, Knox, my friend implored. This case is driving me mad. I have a conviction that it is going to prove my waterloo. My dear fellow, I said, this mood is new to you. Why don't you advise me to remember August Dupin, asked Harley bitterly. That great man, preserving his philosophical calm, doubtless by this time, would have pieced together these disjointed clues and have produced an elegant pattern ready to be framed and exhibited to the admiring public. He dropped down upon the bed, and, taking his briar from his pocket, began to load it in a manner which was almost vicious. I stood watching him and offered no remark, until, having lighted the pipe, he began to smoke. I knew that these Indian moods were of short duration, and sure enough, presently. God bless us all, Knox, he said, breaking into an amused smile. How we bristle when someone tries to prove that we are not infallible. How human we are, Knox, but how fortunate that we can laugh at ourselves. I sighed with relief, or Harley at these times imposed a severe strain even upon my easy-going disposition. Let us go down to the billiard room, he continued. I will play you a hundred up. I have arrived at a point where my ideas persistently work in circles. The best cure is golf, failing golf, billiards. The billiard room was immediately beneath us, adjoining the last apartment in the East Wing, and there we made our way. Harley played keenly, deliberately, concentrating upon the game. I was less successful, for I found myself alternately glancing toward the door and the open window, in the hope that Val Beverly would join us. I was disappointed, however. We saw no more of the ladies until tea time, and if a spirit of constraint had prevailed throughout the luncheon, a veritable demon of unrest presided upon the terrace during tea. Madame de Stemmer made apologies on behalf of the Colonel. He was prolonging his siesta, but he hoped to join us at dinner. Is the Colonel's heart affected? Harley asked. Madame de Stemmer shrugged her shoulders and shook her head blankly. It is mysterious the state of his health, she replied. An old trouble, wish began years and years ago in Cuba. Harley nodded sympathetically, but I could see that he was not satisfied. Yet, although he might doubt her explanation, he had noted, and so had I, that Madame de Stemmer's concern was very real. Her slender hands were strangely unsteady. Indeed, her condition bordered on one of distraction. Harley concealed his thoughts, whatever they may have been, beneath that mask of reserve which I knew so well, whilst I endeavored in vain to draw Val Beverly into conversation with me. I gathered that Madame de Stemmer had been to visit the invalid, and that she was all anxiety to return was a fact she was wholly unable to conceal. There was a tired look in her still eyes as though she had undertaken a task beyond her powers to perform, and so unnatural a quartet were we that when presently she withdrew I was glad, although she took Val Beverly with her. Paul Harley resumed his seat, staring at me with unseeing eyes. A sound reached us through the drawing room which told us that Madame de Stemmer's chair was being taken upstairs. A task always performed when Madame desired to visit the upper floors by Manuel and Pedro's daughter, Nita, who acted as Madame's maid. These sounds died away, and I thought how silent everything had become. Even the birds were still, and presently my eye being attracted to a black speck in the sky above I learned why the feathered choir was mute. A hawk was hovering loftily overhead. Noting my upward glance Paul Harley also raised his eyes. Ah! he murmured. A hawk. All the birds are cowering in their nests. Nature is a cruel mistress, Knox. End of Chapter 15. Part 6 of Batwing by Sacks Romer. Read by Mark Nelson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Batwing. Chapter 16. Red Eve. Over the remainder of that afternoon I will pass in silence. Indeed, looking backward now, I cannot recollect that it afforded one incident worthy of record. But because great things overshadow small, so it may be that whereas my recollections of quite trivial episodes are sharp enough up to a point, my memories from this point onward to the horrible and tragic happening which I have set myself to relate are hazy and indistinct. I was troubled by the continued absence of Val Beverly. I thought that she was avoiding me by design, and in Harley's gloomy reticence I could find no shadow of comfort. We wandered aimlessly about the grounds, Harley staring up in a vague fashion at the windows of craze folly, and presently when I stopped to inspect a very perfect rose-bush he left me without a word, and I found myself alone. Later, as I sauntered toward the Tudor Garden, where I had hoped to encounter Miss Beverly, I heard the clicking of billiard balls, and there was Harley at the table, practising fancy shots. He glanced up at me as I paused by the open window, stopped to relight his pipe, and then bent over the table again. Leave me alone, Knox, he muttered. I am not fit for human society. Understanding his moods as well as I did, I merely laughed and withdrew. I strolled around into the library and inspected scores of books without forming any definite impression of the contents of any of them. Manuel came in whilst I was there, and I was strongly tempted to send a message to Miss Beverly, but common sense overcame the inclination. When at last my watch told me that the hour for dressing was arrived, I heaved a sigh of relief. I cannot say that I was bored, my ill temper sprang from a deeper source than this, the mysterious disappearance of the inmates of craze folly, and a sort of brooding stillness which lay over the great house had utterly oppressed me. As I passed along the terrace I paused to admire the spectacle afforded by the setting sun. The horizon was on fire from north to south, and the countryside was stained with that mystic radiance which is sometimes called the blood of Apollo. Turning I saw the disc of the moon coldly rising in the heavens. I thought of the silent birds and the hovering hawk, and I began my preparations for dinner mechanically, dressing as an automaton might dress. Paul Harley's personality was never more marked than in his evil moods. His power to fascinate was only equalled by his power to repel. Thus, although there was a light in his room and I could hear him moving about, I did not join him when I had finished dressing, but lighting a cigarette walked downstairs. The beauty of the night called to me, although, as I stepped out upon the terrace, I realized with a sort of shock that the gathering dusk held a menace, so that I found myself questioning the shadows and doubting the rustle of every leaf. Something invisible, intangible yet potent brooded over craze folly. I began to think more kindly of the disappearance of Val Beverly during the afternoon. Doubtless she too had been touched by this spirit of unrest and in solitude had sought to dispel it. So thinking I walked on in the direction of the Tudor Garden. The place was bathed in a sort of purple half-light, lending it a fairy-air of unreality, as though banished sun and rising moon yet disputed for mastery over the earth. This idea set me thinking of Cullen Camber, of Osiris, whom he had described as a Black God, and of Isis, whose silver disk now held undisputed sovereignty of the evening sky. Resentment of the treatment which I had received at the guest-house still burned hotly within me, but the mystery of it all had taken the keen edge off my wrath, and I think a sort of melancholy was the keynote of my reflections, as descending the steps to the Sunken Garden I saw Val Beverly, in a delicate blue gown coming toward me. She was the spirit of my dreams and the embodiment of my mood. When she lowered her eyes at my approach I knew by virtue of a sort of inspiration that she had been avoiding me. Miss Beverly, I said, I have been looking for you all the afternoon. Have you? I have been in my room writing letters. I paced slowly along beside her. I wish you would be very frank with me, I said. She glanced up swiftly and as swiftly lowered her lashes again. Do you think I am not frank? I do think so. I understand why. Do you really understand? I think I do. Your woman's intuition has told you that there is something wrong. In what way? You are afraid of your thoughts. You can see that Madame de Stemmer and Colonel Menendez are deliberately concealing something from Paul Harley, and you don't know where your duty lies. Am I right? She met my glance for a moment in a startled way, then... Yes, she said softly, you are quite right. How have you guessed? I have tried very hard to understand you, I replied, and so perhaps up to a point I have succeeded. Oh, Mr. Knox! She suddenly laid her hand upon my arm. I am oppressed with such a dreadful foreboding, yet I don't know how to explain it to you. I understand, I too have felt it. You have? She paused and looked at me eagerly. Then it is not just morbid imagination on my part. If only I knew what to do, what to believe. Really, I am bewildered. I have just left Madame de Stemmer. Yes, I said, for she had paused in evident doubt. Well, she has utterly broken down. Broken down? She came to my room and sobbed hysterically for nearly an hour this afternoon. But what was the cause of her grief? I simply cannot understand. Is it possible that Colonel Menendez is dangerously ill? It may be so, Mr. Knox, but in that event, why have they not sent for a physician? True, I murmured, and no one has been sent for. No one. Have you seen Colonel Menendez? Not since lunchtime. Have you ever known him to suffer in this way before? Never. It is utterly unaccountable. Certainly during the last few months he has given up writing practically altogether, and in other ways has changed his former habits. But I have never known him to exhibit traces of any real illness. Has any medical man attended him? Not that I know of. Oh, there is something uncanny about it all. Whatever should I do if you were not here? She had spoken on impulse, and seeing her swift embarrassment. Miss Beverly, I said, I am delighted to know that my company cheers you. Truth to tell, my heart was beating rapidly. And, so selfish as the nature of man, I was more glad to learn that my company was acceptable to Val Beverly than I should have been to have had the riddle of craze folly laid bare before me. Those sweetly indiscreet words, however, had raised a momentary barrier between us, and we walked on silently to the house, and entered the brightly lighted hall. The silver peel of a Chinese tubular gong rang out just when we reached the veranda, and as Val Beverly and I walked in from the garden, Madame de Stemmer came wheeling through the doorway, closely followed by Paul Harley. In her, the art of the toilet had amounted almost to genius, and she had so successfully concealed all traces of a recent grief that I wondered if this could have been real. My dear Mr. Knox, she cried, I seem to be fated always to apologize for other people. Zak Colonel is truly desolate, but he cannot join us for dinner. I have already explained to Mr. Harley. Harley inclined his head sympathetically and assisted to arrange Madame in her place. The Colonel requested us to smoke a cigar with him after dinner, Knox, he said, glancing across to me. It would seem that troubles never come singly. Ah! Madame shrugged her shoulders, which her low gown left daringly bare. Zak come in flocks, or not at all. But I suppose we should feel lonely in the world without a few little sorrows, eh, Mr. Harley? I loved her unquenchable spirit, and I have wondered often enough what I should have thought of her had I known the truth. France has bred some wonderful women, both good and bad, but none I think more wonderful than Marie de Stemmer. If such a thing were possible we dined more extravagantly than on the previous night. Madame's wit was at its keenest, she was truly brilliant. Pedro, from the big buffet at the end of the room, supervised this feast of locullus, and except for odd moments of silence in which Madame seemed to be listening for some distant sound there was nothing I think which could have told a casual observer that a black cloud rested upon the house. Once, interrupting a tet-a-tet between Val Beverly and Paul Harley, Do not encourage her, Mr. Harley, said Madame, she is a desperate flirt. Oh, Madame! cried Val Beverly and blushed deeply. You know you are, my dear, and you are very wise, flirt all your life, but never fall in love. It is fatal, don't you think, Mr. Knox? Turning to me in her rapid manner. I looked into her still eyes, which concealed so much. Say, rather that it is fate, I murmured. Yes, that is more pretty, but not so true. If I could live my life again, Mr. Knox, he said, for she sometimes used the French and sometimes the English mode of address. I should build a stone wall around my heart. It could peep over, but no one could ever reach it. Oddly enough then, as it seems to me now, the spirit of unrest seemed almost to depart for a while, and in the company of the vivacious French woman time passed very quickly up to the moment when Harley and I walked slowly upstairs to join the Colonel. During the latter part of dinner an idea had presented itself to me which I was anxious to mention to Harley, and— Harley, I said, an explanation of the Colonel's absence has occurred to me. Really, he replied, possibly the same one that has occurred to me. What is that? Paul Harley paused on the stairs, turning to me. You are thinking that he has taken cover from the danger which he believes particularly to threaten him tonight? Exactly. You may be right, he murmured, proceeding upstairs. He led the way to a little smoke-room which hitherto I had never visited, and in response to his knock, come in, cried the high voice of Colonel Menendez. We entered to find ourselves in a small and very cozy room. There was a handsome oak bureau against one wall which was littered with papers of various kinds, and there was also a large bookcase occupied almost exclusively by French novels. It occurred to me that the Colonel spent a greater part of his time in this little snuggery than in the more formal study below. In the moment of our arrival he was stretched upon a set tea, near which stood a little table, and on this table I observed the remains of what appeared to me to have been a fairly substantial repast. For some reason which I did not pause to analyze at the moment I noted with disfavor the presence of a bowl of roses upon the silver tray. Colonel Menendez was smoking a cigarette and Manuel was in the act of removing the tray. Gentlemen, said the Colonel, I have no words in which to express my sorrow. Manuel, pull up those arm-chairs. Help yourselves to port Mr. Hardy and feel Mr. Nox's glass. I can recommend the cigars in the long box. As we seated ourselves. I am extremely sorry to find you indisposed, sir, said Harley. He was watching the dark face keenly, and probably thinking, as I was thinking, that it exhibited no trace of illness. Colonel Menendez waved his cigarette gracefully, settling himself amid the cushions. And old trouble, Mr. Harley, he replied lightly, a legacy from ancestors who drank too deep of the whine of life. You are surely taking medical advice? Colonel Menendez shrugged slightly. There is no doctor in England who would understand the case, he replied. Besides, there is nothing for it but rest and avoidance of excitement. In that event, Colonel, said Harley, we will not disturb you for long. Indeed, I should not have consented to disturb you at all if I had not thought you might have some request to make upon this important night. Ah! Colonel Menendez shot a swift glance in his direction. You have remembered about to-night. Naturally. Your interest comforts me very greatly, gentlemen, and I am only sorry that my uncertain health has made me so poor a host. Nothing has occurred since your arrival to help you, I am aware. Not that I am anxious for any new activity on the part of my enemies, but almost anything which should end this deathly suspense would be welcome. He spoke the final words with a peculiar intonation. I saw Harley watching him closely. However, he continued, everything is in the hands of fate, and if your visit should prove futile, I can only apologize for having interrupted your original plans. Respecting to-night, he shrugged, what can I say? Nothing has occurred, asked Harley slowly. Nothing fresh, I mean, to indicate that the danger which you apprehend may really culminate to-night. Nothing fresh, Mr. Harley, unless you yourself have observed anything. Ah! murmured Paul Harley. Let us hope that the threat will never be fulfilled. Colonel Menendez inclined his head gravely. Let us hope so, he said. On the whole, he was curiously subdued. He was most solicitous for our comfort, and his exquisite courtesy had never been more marked. I often think of him now, his big but graceful figure reclining upon the settee, whilst he skillfully rolled his eternal cigarettes and chatted in that peculiar, light voice. Before the memory of Colonel Don Juan Sarmiento Menendez I sometimes stand appalled. If his maker had but endowed him with other qualities of mind and heart equal to his magnificent courage, then truly he had been a great man. Chapter 17 Night of the Full Moon I stood at Harley's open window, looking down in the Tudor Garden. The moon, like a silver mirror, hung in a cloudless sky. Over an hour had elapsed since I had heard Pedro making his nightly rounds. Nothing whatever of an unusual nature had occurred, and although Harley and I had listened for any sound of nocturnal footsteps, our vigilance had passed unrewarded. Harley, unrolling the Chinese ladder, had set out upon a secret tour of the grounds, warning me that it must be a long business since the brilliance of the moonlight rendered it necessary that he should make a wide detour in order to avoid possible observation from the windows. I had wished to join him, but I counted most important that one of us should remain in the house, he had replied. As a result there was I at the open window, questioning the shadows to right and left of me, and every moment expecting to see Harley reappear. I wondered what discoveries he would make. It would not have surprised me to learn that there were lights in many windows of crazed folly tonight. Although, when we had rejoined the ladies for half an hour after leaving Colonel Menendez's room, there had been no overt reference to the menace overhanging the house, yet as we separated for the night I had detected again, in Val Beverly's eyes, that look of repressed fear. Indeed she was palpably disinclined to retire, but was carried off by the masterful madame who declared that she looked tired. I wondered now, as I gazed down into the moon-bathed gardens, if Harley and I were the only wakeful members of the household at that hour, I should have been prepared to wager that there were others. I thought of the strange footsteps which so often passed Ms. Beverly's room, and I discovered this thought to be an uncomfortable one. Normally I was sceptical enough, but on this night of the full moon, as I stood there at the window, the horrors which Colonel Menendez had related to us grew very real in my eyes, and I thought that the mysteries of Voodoo might conceal strange and ghastly truths. The scientific employment of darkness against light. Colonel Canberr's words leapt unbidden to my mind, and such is the magic of moonlight. They became invested with a new and deeper significance. Strange that theories which one rejects whilst the sun is shining should assume a spectral shape in the light of the moon. Such were my musings when suddenly I heard a faint sound as of footsteps crunching upon gravel. I leaned farther out of the window listening intently. I could not believe that Harley would be guilty of such an indiscretion as this, yet who else could be walking upon the path below? As I watched, craning from the window, a tall figure appeared, and slowly crossing the gravel path descended the moss-grown steps to the Tudor Garden. It was Colonel Menendez. He was bare-headed but fully dressed as I had seen him in the smoking-room, and not yet grasping the portent of his appearance at that hour but merely wondering why he had not yet retired I continued to watch him. As I did so, something in his gait, something unnatural in his movements caught hold of my mind with a sudden great conviction. He had reached the path which had led to the sundial, and with short, queer, ataxic steps was proceeding in its direction, a striking figure in the brilliant moonlight which touched his gray hair with a silvery sheen. His unnatural, un-natured, un-natured, un-natured, un-natured automatic movements told their own story. He was walking in his sleep. Could it be an obedience to the call of McCombo? My throat grew dry and I knew not how to act. Unwillingly it seemed, with ever halting steps, the figure moved onward. I could see that his fists were tightly clenched and that he held his head rigidly upright. All horrors, real and imaginary, which I had ever experienced, culminated in that moment when I saw this man of inflexible character, I could have sworn of indomitable will, moving like a puppet under the influence of some unnameable force. He was almost come to the sundial when I determined to cry out. Then, remembering the shock experienced by a suddenly awakened somnambulist and remembering that the Chinese ladder hung from the window at my feet, I changed my mind. Checking the cry upon my lips, I got a stride of the window ledge and began to grope for the bamboo rungs beneath me. I had found the first of these and turning had begun to descend, when— Knox! Knox! came softly from the opening in the box hedge. What the devil are you about? It was Paul Harley returned from his tour of the building. Harley! I whispered descending. Quick! The Colonel has just gone into the Tudor Garden. What! There was a note of absolute horror in the exclamation. You should have stopped him, Knox! You should have stopped him! cried Harley, and with that he ran off in the same direction. Disentangling my foot from the rungs of the ladder which lay upon the ground, I was about to follow when it happened. That strange and ghastly thing toward which secretly, darkly, events had been tending. The crack of a rifle sounded sharply in the stillness, echoing and re-echoing from wing to wing of craze folly, and then, more dimly, up the wooded slopes beyond. Somewhere ahead of me I heard Harley cry out, My God! I am too late! They have got him! Then, hotfoot, I was making for the entrance to the garden. Just as I came to it and raced down the steps, I heard another sound the memory of which haunts me to this day. Where it came from I had no idea. Perhaps I was too confused to judge accurately. It might have come from the house, or from the slopes beyond the house, but it was a sort of shrill, choking laugh, and it set the ultimate touch of horror upon a scene macabre, which, even as I write of it, seems unreal to me. I ran up the path to where Harley was kneeling beside the sundial. Analysis of my emotions at this moment were futile. I can only say that I had come to a state of stupefaction. Face downward on the grass, arms outstretched, and fists clenched, lay Colonel Menendez. I think I saw him move convulsively, but as I gained his side Harley looked up at me, and beneath the tan which he never lost his face had grown pale. He spoke through clenched teeth. Merciful God! he said, he has shot through the head. One glance I gave at the ghastly wound in the base of the Colonel Skull, and then swayed backward in a sort of nausea. To see a man die in the heat of battle, a man one has known and called friend, is strange and terrible. Here, in this moon-bath tutor garden, it was a horror almost beyond my powers to endure. Paul Harley, without touching the prone figure, stood up. Indeed, no examination of the victim was necessary. A rifle bullet had pierced his brain, and he lay there dead with his head toward the hills. I clutched at Harley's shoulder, but he stood rigidly, staring up the slope past the angle of the tower to where a gable of the ghast house jutted out from the trees. Did you hear that cry, I whispered, immediately after the shot? I heard it. A moment longer, he stood fixedly watching, and then, not a wisp of smoke, he said. You note the direction in which he was facing when he fell? He spoke in a stern and unnatural voice. I do, he must have turned half right when he came to the sundial. Where were you when the shot was fired? Running in this direction. You saw no flash? None. Neither did I, groaned Harley, neither did I. And short of throwing a cordon round the hills, what can be done? How can I move? He had somewhat relaxed, but now, as I continued to clutch his arm, I felt the muscles grow rigid again. Look, Knox! he whispered. Look! I followed the direction of his fixed stare and threw the trees on the hillside a dim light shone out. Someone had lighted a lamp in the gas-house. A faint, sibilant sound drew my glance upward, and there overhead, a bat circled. Circled, dipped, and flew off toward the distant woods. So still was the night that I could distinguish the babble of the little stream which ran down into the lake. Then suddenly came a loud flapping of wings. The swans had been awakened by the sound of the shot. Others had been awakened too, for now distant voices became audible, and then a muffled scream from somewhere within craze folly. Back to the house, Knox, said Harley hoarsely. For God's sake, keep the women away. Get Pedro and send Manuel for the nearest doctor. It's useless, but usual. Let no one deface his footprints. My worst anticipations have come true. The local police must be informed. Throughout the time that he spoke he continued to search the moon-bathed landscape with feverish eagerness, but except for a faint movement of birds in the trees, for they, like the swans on the lake, had been alarmed by the shot, nothing stirred. It came from the hillside, he muttered, off you go, Knox. And even as I started on my unpleasant errand he had set out running toward the gate in the southern corner of the garden. For my part I scrambled unceremoniously up the bank and emerged where the U stood sentinel beside the path. I ran through the gap in the box-edge just as the main doors were thrown open by Pedro. He started back as he saw me. Pedro, Pedro, I cried. Have the ladies been awakened? Yes, yes, there is a terrible trouble, sir. What has happened? What has happened? A tragedy, I said shortly. Pull yourself together. Where is Madam Distemmer? Pedro uttered some exclamation in Spanish and stood pale-faced swaying before me, a disheveled figure in a dressing gown. And now in the background Mrs. Fisher appeared. One frightened glance she cast in my direction and would have hurried across the hall but I intercepted her. Where are you going, Mrs. Fisher? I demanded. What has happened here? To Madame, to Madame, she sobbed, pointing toward the corridor which communicated with Madame Distemmer's bedchamber. I heard a frightened cry proceeding from that direction and recognized the voice of Nita, the girl who acted as Madame's maid. Then I heard Val Beverly. Go and fetch Mrs. Fisher, Nita, at once, and try to behave yourself. I have trouble enough. I entered the corridor and pulled up short. Val Beverly, fully dressed, was kneeling beside Madame Distemmer, who wore a kimono over her night-robe, and who lay huddled on the floor, immediately outside the door of her room. Oh, Mr. Knox, cried the girl pitifully, and raised frightened eyes to me. For God's sake, what has happened? Nita, the Spanish girl, who was sobbing hysterically, ran along to join Mrs. Fisher. I will tell you in a moment, I said, quietly, rendered cool, as one always is, by the need of others. But first tell me, how did Madame Distemmer get here? I don't know, I don't know! I was startled by the shot, it has awakened everybody, and just as I opened my door to listen, I heard Madame cry out in the hall below. I ran down, turned on the light, and found her lying here. She, too, had been awakened, I suppose, and was endeavouring to drag herself from her room when her strength failed her and she swooned. She is too heavy for me to lift, added the girl, pathetically. And Pedro is out of his senses, and Nita, who was the first of the three servants to come, is simply hysterical, as you can see. I nodded reassuringly, and Stooping lifted the swooning woman. She was much heavier than I should have supposed, but Val Beverly leading the way, I carried her into her apartment and placed her upon the bed. I will leave her to you, I said. You have courage, so I will tell you what has happened. Yes, tell me, oh, tell me! She laid her hands upon my shoulders appealingly, and looked up into my eyes in a way that made me long to take her in my arms and comfort her, an insane longing which I only crushed with difficulty. Someone has shot Colonel Menendez, I said in a low voice, for Mrs. Fisher had just entered. You mean—I nodded—oh! Val Beverly opened and closed her eyes, clutching at me dizzily for a moment, then—I think, she whispered, she must have known, and that was why she swooned. Oh, my God, how horrible! I made her sit down in an arm-chair and watched her anxiously, but although every speck of color had faded from her cheeks, she was splendidly courageous, and almost immediately she smiled up at me, very wanly, but confidently. I will look after her, she said. Mr. Harley will need your assistance. When I returned to the hall, I found it already filled with a number of servants incongruously attired. Carter the show firm who lived at the Lodge was just coming in at the door, and— Carter, I said, get a car out quickly and bring the nearest doctor. If there is another man who can drive, send him for the police. Your master has been shot. CHAPTER XVIII. INSPECTOR ALESBURY OF MARKET HILTON Now, gentlemen, said Inspector Aylesbury, I will take evidence. Dawn was creeping grayly over the hills, and the view from the library windows resembled a study by Bastion LaPage. The lamps burned yellowly, and the exotic appointments of the library viewed in that cold light, for some reason, reminded me of a stage set seen in daylight. The Velasquez portrait mentally translated me to the billiard room, where something lay upon the set tee with a white sheet drawn over it, and I wondered if my own face looked as wan and comfortless as did the face of my companions—that is, of two of them—for I must accept Inspector Aylesbury. Squarely before the oaken mantel he stood, a large pompous man, but in this hour I could find no humor in Paul Harley's description of him as resembling a walrus. He had a large, all-burned mustache, tinged with gray, and prominent brown eyes, but the lower part of his face, which terminated in a big double chin, was ill balanced by his small forehead. He was bulkily built, and I had conceived an unreasonable distaste for his puffy hands. His official air and oratorical manner were provoking. Harley sat in the chair which had been occupied during our last interview with Colonel Menendez in the library, and I had realized, a realization which had made me uncomfortable, that I was seated upon the couch on which the Colonel had reclined. Only one other was present, Dr. Rolston of Midhattan, a slight fair man, with a brisk military manner, acquired perhaps during six years of war service. He was standing beside me, smoking a cigarette. I have taken all the necessary particulars concerning the position of the body, continued the Inspector, the nature of the wound, contents of pockets, etc., and now to the body, and to the pockets, etc., and now turn to you, Mr. Harley, as the first person to discover the murdered man. Paul Harley lay back in the arm chair watching the speaker. Before we come to what happened here tonight, I should like to be quite clear about your position in the matter, Mr. Harley. Now, Inspector Aylesbury raised one finger in forensic manner. Now, you visited me yesterday afternoon, Mr. Harley, and asked for certain information regarding the neighborhood. I did, said Harley shortly. The questions which you asked me were, continued the Inspector slowly and impressively, did I know of any negro or colored people living in or about Midhattan, and could I give you a list of the residents within a two-mile radius of crazed folly? I gave you the information which you required, and now it is your term to give me some. Why did you ask those questions? For this reason, was the reply. I had been requested by Colonel Menendez to visit crazed folly, accompanied by my friend Mr. Knox, in order that I might investigate certain occurrences which had taken place here. Oh! said the Inspector, raising his eyebrows. I see. You were here to make investigations? Yes. And these occurrences, will you tell me what they were? Simple enough in themselves, replied Harley, someone broke into the house one night. Broke into the house? Undoubtedly. But this was never reported to us. Possibly not, but someone broke in nevertheless. Secondly, Colonel Menendez had detected someone lurking about the lawns, and thirdly, the wing of a bat was nailed to the main door. Inspector Aylesbury lowered his eyebrows and concentrated a frowning glance upon the speaker. Of course, sir, he said. I don't want to jump to conclusions, but you are not by any chance trying to be funny at a time like this? My sense of humour has failed me entirely, replied Harley. I am merely stating bald facts in reply to your questions. Oh! I see. The Inspector cleared his throat. Someone broke into craze folly, then, a fact which has not been reported to me. A suspicious loiterer was seen in the grounds, again not reported, and someone played a silly practical joke by nailing the wing of a bat, you say, to the door. Might I ask, Mr. Harley, why you mention this matter? The other things are serious, but why you should mention the trick of some mischievous boy at a time like this, I can't imagine. No, said Harley wearily. It does sound absurd, Inspector. I quite appreciate the fact, but you see Colonel Menendez regarded it as the most significant episode of them all. What! The bat wing nailed on the door? The bat wing decidedly. He believed it to be the token of a Negro secret society which had determined upon his death, hence my enquiries regarding coloured men in the neighbourhood. Do you understand, Inspector? Inspector Aylesbury took a large handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. Replacing the handkerchief he cleared his throat, and— Am I to understand, he inquired, that the late Colonel Menendez had expected to be attacked? You may understand that, replied Harley. It explains my presence in the house. Oh! said the Inspector. I see. It looks as though he might have done better if he had applied to me. Paul Harley glanced across in my direction and smiled grimly. As I had predicted, Knox, he murmured, my Waterloo, What's that you say about Waterloo, Mr. Harley? demanded the Inspector. Nothing germane to the case, replied Harley. It was a reference to a battle not to a railway station. Inspector Aylesbury stared at him dully. You quite understand that you are giving evidence, he said. It were impossible not to appreciate the fact. Very well, then. The late Colonel Menendez thought he was in danger from Negroes. Why did he think that? He was a retired West Indian planter, replied Harley patiently, and he was under the impression that he had offended a powerful native society, and for that many years their vengeance had pursued him. Attempts to assassinate him had already taken place in Cuba and in the United States. What sort of attempts? He was shot at several times, and once in Washington was attacked by a man with a knife. He maintained in my presence and in the presence of my friend Mr. Knox here that these various attempts were due to members of a sect or religion known as Voodoo. Voodoo? Voodoo, Inspector, also known as Obia, a cult which has spread from the West Coast of Africa throughout the West Indies and to parts of the United States. The bat-wing is said to be a sign used by these people. Inspector Aylesbury scratched his chin. Now let me get this thing clear, said he. Colonel Menendez believed that people called Voodoo's wanted to kill him. Before we go any farther, why? Twenty years ago in the West Indies he had shot an important member of this sect. Twenty years ago? According to a statement which was made to me, yes? I see. Then for twenty years these Voodoo's have been trying to kill him. Then he comes and settles here in Surrey and someone nails a bat-wing to his door. Did you see this bat-wing? I did. I have it upstairs in my bag if you would care to examine it. Oh! said the Inspector. I see. And thinking he had been followed to England, he came to you to see if you could save him. Paul Harley nodded grimly. Why did he go to you in preference to the local police, the proper authorities, demanded the Inspector? He was advised to do so by the Spanish Ambassador, or so he informed me. Is that so? Well, I suppose it had to be. Coming from foreign parts. I expect he didn't know what our police are for. He cleared his throat. Very well. I understand now what you are doing here, Mr. Harley. The next thing is, what were you doing tonight, as I see that both you and Mr. Knox are still in evening dress. We were keeping watch, I replied. Inspector Aylesbury turned to me ponderously, raising a fat hand. One moment, Mr. Knox, one moment, he protested, the evidence of one witness at a time. We were keeping watch, said Harley, deliberately echoing my words. Why? More or less we were here for that purpose. You see, on the night of the full moon, according to Colonel Menendez, Obia people become particularly active. Why on the night of the full moon? This I cannot tell you. Oh, I see! You were keeping watch. Where were you keeping watch? In my room. In which part of the house is your room? Northeast, it overlooks the Tudor Garden. At what time did you retire? About half past ten. Did you leave the Colonel well? No, he had been unwell all day. He had remained in his room. Had he asked you to sit up? Not at all. Our vigil was quite voluntary. Very well, then. You were in your room when the shot was fired. On the contrary, I was on the path in front of the house. Oh, I see! The front door was open then. Not at all. Pedro had locked up for the night. And locked you out? No, I descended from my window by means of a ladder which I had brought with me for the purpose. With a ladder? That's rather extraordinary, Mr. Harley. It is extraordinary. I have strange habits. Inspector Aylesbury cleared his throat again and looked frowningly across at my friend. What part of the grounds were you in when the shot was fired? He demanded. Halfway along the north side. What were you doing? I was running. Running! You see, Inspector, I regarded it as my duty to patrol the grounds of the house at nightfall, since, for all I knew to the contrary, some of the servants might be responsible for the attempts of which the Colonel complained. I had descended from the window of my room, had passed entirely around the house east to west, and had returned to my starting point when Mr. Knox, who was looking out of the window, observed Colonel Menendez entering the Tudor Garden. Oh! Colonel Menendez was not visible to you. Not from my position below, but being informed by my friend, who was hurriedly descending the ladder, that the Colonel had entered the garden, I set off running to intercept him. Why? He had acquired a habit of walking in his sleep, and I presumed that he was doing so on this occasion. Oh! I see. So, being told by the gentleman at the window that Colonel Menendez was in the garden, you started to run toward him. While you were running, you heard a shot? I did. Where did you think it came from? Nothing is more difficult to judge, Inspector, especially when one is near to a large building surrounded by trees. Nevertheless, said the Inspector, again raising his finger and frowning at Harley, you cannot tell me that you formed no impression on the point. For instance, was it near or a long way off? It was fairly near. Ten yards, twenty yards, a hundred yards, a mile? Within a hundred yards, I cannot be more exact. Within a hundred yards, and you have no idea from which direction the shot was fired? From the sound I could form none. Oh, I see. And what did you do? I ran on and down into the sunken garden. I saw Colonel Menendez lying upon his face near the sundial. He was moving convulsively. Running up to him, I saw that he had been shot through the head. What steps did you take? My friend Mr. Knox had joined me and I sent him for assistance. But what steps did you take to apprehend the murderer? Paul Harley looked at him quietly. What steps should you have taken? He asked. Inspector Aylesbury cleared his throat again, and I don't think I should have let my man slip through my fingers like that, he replied. Why, by now, he may be out of the county. Your theory is quite feasible, said Harley tonelessly. You were actually on the spot when the shot was fired. You admit that it was fired within a hundred yards, yet you did nothing to apprehend the murderer. No, replied Harley. I was ridiculously inactive. You see, I am a mere amateur, Inspector. For my future guidance I should be glad to know what the correct procedure would have been. Inspector Aylesbury blew his nose. I know my job, he said. If I had been called in, there might have been a different tale to tell. But he was a foreigner and he paid for his ignorance, poor fellow. Paul Harley took out his pipe and began to load it in a deliberate and lazy manner. Inspector Aylesbury turned his prominent eyes in my direction. End of Chapter 18