“I brought this bat wing from Haiti,” he explained, replacing it in the tray. “It was found beneath the pillow of a negro missionary who had died mysteriously during the night.”  
He returned the tray to the drawer, closed the latter, and, standing erect, raised clenched hands above his head.
 
“With no thought of blasphemy,” he said, “but with reverence, I thank God from the bottom of my heart that Juan Menendez is dead.”
 
He reseated himself, whilst Harley regarded him silently, then:
 
“‘The evil that men do lives after them,’” he murmured. He rested his chin upon his hand. “A bat wing,” he continued, musingly, “a bat wing was nailed to Menendez’s door.” He stared across at Harley. “Am I to believe, sir, that this was the clue which led you to the Guest House?”
 
Paul Harley nodded.
 
“It was.”
 
“I understand. I must therefore take no more excursions into my special subject, but must endeavour to regard the matter from the point of view of the enquiry. Am I to assume that Menendez was acquainted with the significance of this token?”
 
“He had seen it employed in the West Indies.”
 
“Ah, the black-hearted devil! But I fear I am involving myself more deeply in suspicion. Perhaps, Mr. Harley, the ends of justice would be better served if you were to question me, and I to confine myself to answering you.”
 
“Very well,” Harley agreed: “when and where did you meet the late Colonel Menendez?”
 
“I never met him in my life.”
 
“Do you mean that you had never spoken to him?”
 
“Never.”
 
“Hm. Tell me, Mr. Camber, where were you at twelve o’clock last night?”
 
“Here, writing.”
 
“And where was Ah Tsong?”
 
“Ah Tsong?” Colin Camber stared uncomprehendingly. “Ah Tsong was in bed.”
 
“Oh. Did anything disturb you?”
 
“Yes, the sound of a rifle shot.”
 
“You knew it for a rifle shot?”
 
“It was unmistakable.”
 
“What did you do?”
 
“I was in the midst of a most important passage, and I should probably have taken no steps in the matter but that Ah Tsong knocked upon the study door, to inform me that my wife had been awakened by the sound of the shot. She is somewhat nervous and had rung for Ah Tsong, asking him to see if all were well with me.”
 
“Do I understand that she imagined the sound to have come from this room?”
 
“When we are newly awakened from sleep, Mr. Harley, we retain only an imperfect impression of that which awakened us.”
 
“True,” replied Paul Harley; “and did Ah Tsong return to his room?”
 
“Not immediately. Permit me to say, Mr. Harley, that the nature of your questions surprises me. At the moment I fail to see their bearing upon the main issue. He returned and reported to my wife that I was writing, and she then requested him to bring her a glass of milk. Accordingly, he came down again, and going out into the kitchen, executed this order.”
 
“Ah. He would have to light a candle for that purpose, I suppose?”
 
“A candle, or a lamp,” replied Colin Camber, staring at Paul Harley. Then, his expression altering: “Of course!” he cried. “You saw the light from Cray’s Folly? I understand at last.”
 
We were silent for a while, until:
 
“How long a time elapsed between the firing of the shot and Ah Tsong’s knocking at the study door?” asked Harley.
 
“I could not answer definitely. I was absorbed in my work. But probably only a minute or two.”
 
“Was the sound a loud one?”
 
“Fairly loud. And very startling, of course, in the silence of the night.”
 
“The shot, then, was fired from somewhere quite near the house?”
 
“I presume so.”
 
“But you thought no more about the matter?”
 
“Frankly, I had forgotten it. You see, the neighbourhood is rich with game; it might have been a poacher.”
 
“Quite,” murmured Harley, but his face was very stern. “I wonder if you fully realize the danger of your position, Mr. Camber?”
 
“Believe me,” was the reply, “I can anticipate almost every question which I shall be called upon to answer.”
 
Paul Harley stared at him in a way which told me that he was comparing his features line for line with the etching of Edgar Allen Poe which hung in his office in Chancery Lane, and:
 
“I do believe you,” he replied, “and I am wondering if you are in a position to clear yourself?”
 
“On the contrary,” Camber assured him, “I am only waiting to hear that Juan Menendez was shot in the grounds of Cray’s Folly, and not within the house, to propose to you that unless the real assassin be discovered, I shall quite possibly pay the penalty of his crime.”
 
“He was shot in the Tudor garden,” replied Harley, “within sight of your windows.”
 
“Ah!” Colin Camber resumed the task of stuffing shag into his corn-cob. “Then if it would interest you, Mr. Harley, I will briefly outline the case against myself. I had never troubled to disguise the fact that I hated Menendez. Many witnesses can be called to testify to this. He was in Cuba when I was in Cuba, and evidence is doubtless obtainable to show that we stayed at the same hotels in various c............