At this point our tete-a-tete was interrupted by the return of Madame de Stamer.
“Oh, la la!” she cried, “the Colonel must have allowed himself to become too animated 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 of the road of life on top speed, Mr. Knox.” She snapped her white fingers and grimaced significantly. “Excitement is bad for him.”
She wheeled her chair up beside Val Beverley, and taking the girl’s hand patted 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 M. Paul Harley will presently tell us what it is all about,” concluded Madame. “Yes, I trust so. We want no Cuban devils here at Cray’s Folly.”
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 Bergmann, 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. Underneath all her vivacity lay something cold and grim.
Harley 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 Harley’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 Stamer could have answered. Nevertheless, at about ten o’clock we separated for the night, and although I was intensely anxious to talk to Harley, 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 11 THE SHADOW ON THE BLIND
Perhaps it was childish on my part, but I accepted this curt dismissal very ill-humouredly. That Harley, 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 Beverley’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 hedge, 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 Cray’s Folly. On the right the yews began, obstructing my view of the Tudor garden, but the night air was fragrant, 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 Innes 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 as 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 the silken rope-ladder with bamboo rungs which I brought from Hongkong 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 Cray’s 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, then:
“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 ill at ease when he had joined Madame de Stamer, Miss Beverley, 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 confiding it to me. I remember that I 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 Beverley has mentioned the room.”
“Ah. Well, there is a light in that room, Knox.”
