Colonel Menendez conducted us to a long, lofty library in which mightbe detected the same note of un-English luxury manifested in the otherappointments of the house. The room, in common with every other whichI had visited in Cray's Folly, was carried out in oak: doors, windowframes, mantelpiece, and ceiling representing fine examples of thismassive woodwork. Indeed, if the eccentricity of the designer of Cray'sFolly were not sufficiently demonstrated by the peculiar plan of thebuilding, its construction wholly of granite and oak must have remarkedhim a man of unusual if substantial ideas.
There were four long windows opening on to a veranda which commanded aview of part of the rose garden and of three terraced lawns descendingto a lake upon which I perceived a number of swans. Beyond, in thevalley, lay verdant pastures, where cattle grazed. A lark hung carollingblithely far above, and the sky was almost cloudless. I could hear asteam reaper at work somewhere in the distance. This, with the moreintimate rattle of a lawn-mower wielded by a gardener who was notvisible from where I stood, alone disturbed the serene silence, exceptthat presently I detected the droning of many bees among the roses.Sunlight flooded the prospect; but the veranda lay in shadow, and thatlong, oaken room was refreshingly cool and laden with the heavy perfumeof the flowers.
From the windows, then, one beheld a typical English summer-scape, butthe library itself struck an altogether more exotic note. There weremany glazed bookcases of a garish design in ebony and gilt, and thesewere laden with a vast collection of works in almost every Europeanlanguage, reflecting perhaps the cosmopolitan character of the colonel'shousehold. There was strange Spanish furniture upholstered in perforatedleather and again displaying much gilt. There were suits of black armourand a great number of Moorish ornaments. The pictures were fine butsombre, and all of the Spanish school.
One Velasquez in particular I noted with surprise, reflecting that,assuming it to be an authentic work of the master, my entire worldlypossessions could not have enabled me to buy it. It was the portraitof a typical Spanish cavalier and beyond doubt a Menendez. In fact, theresemblance between the haughty Spanish grandee, who seemed aboutto step out of the canvas and pick a quarrel with the spectator, andColonel Don Juan himself was almost startling. Evidently, our host hadimported most of his belongings from Cuba.
"Gentlemen," he said, as we entered, "make yourselves quite at home, Ibeg. All my poor establishment contains is for your entertainment andservice."
He drew up two long, low lounge chairs, the arms provided withreceptacles to contain cooling drinks; and the mere sight of thesechairs mentally translated me to the Spanish Main, where I pictured themset upon the veranda of that hacienda which had formerly been our host'sresidence.
Harley and I became seated and Colonel Menendez disposed himself upon aleather-covered couch, nodding apologetically as he did so.
"My health requires that I should recline for a certain number of hoursevery day," he explained. "So you will please forgive me."
"My dear Colonel Menendez," said Harley, "I feel sure that you areinterrupting your siesta in order to discuss the unpleasant businesswhich finds us in such pleasant surroundings. Allow me once again tosuggest that we postpone this matter until, shall we say, after dinner?"
"No, no! No, no," protested the Colonel, waving his hand deprecatingly."Here is Pedro with coffee and some curacao of a kind which I can reallyrecommend, although you may be unfamiliar with it."
I was certainly unfamiliar with the liqueur which he insisted we musttaste, and which was contained in a sort of square, opaque bottleunknown, I think, to English wine merchants. Beyond doubt it was potentstuff; and some cigars which the Spaniard produced on this occasion andwhich were enclosed in little glass cylinders resembling test-tubes andelaborately sealed, I recognized to be priceless. They convinced me, ifconviction had not visited me already, that Colonel Don Juan SarmientoMenendez belonged to that old school of West Indian planters by whomthe tradition of the Golden Americas had been for long preserved in theSpanish Main.
We discussed indifferent matters for a while, sipping this wonderfulcuracao of our host's. The effect created by the Colonel's story fadedentirely, and when, the latter being unable to conceal his drowsiness,Harley stood up, I took the hint with gratitude; for at that moment Idid not feel in the mood to discuss serious business or indeed businessof any kind.
"Gentlemen," said the Colonel, also rising, in spite of our protests, "Iwill observe your wishes. My guests' wishes are mine. We will meet theladies for tea on the terrace."
Harley and I walked out into the garden together, our courteous hoststanding in the open window, and bowing in that exaggerated fashionwhich in another might have been ridiculous but which was possible inColonel Menendez, because of the peculiar grace of deportment which washis.
As we descended the steps I turned and glanced back, I know not why. Butthe impression which I derived of the Colonel's face as he stood therein the shadow of the veranda was one I can never forget.
His expression had changed utterly, or so it seemed to me. He no longerresembled Velasquez' haughty cavalier; gone, too, was the debonnairebearing, I turned my head aside swiftly, hoping that he had not detectedmy backward glance.
I felt that I had violated hospitality. I felt that I had seen what Ishould not have seen. And the result was to bring about that which nostory of West Indian magic could ever have wrought in my mind.
A dreadful, cold premonition claimed me, a premonition that this was adoomed man.
The look which I had detected upon his face was an indefinable, anindescribable look; but I had seen it in the eyes of one who had beenbitten by a poisonous reptile and who knew his hours to be numbered. Itwas uncanny, unnerving; and whereas at first the atmosphere of ColonelMenendez's home had seemed to be laden with prosperous security, nowthat sense of ease and restfulness was gone--and gone for ever.
"Harley," I said, speaking almost at random, "this promises to be thestrangest case you have ever handled."
"Promises?" Paul Harley laughed shortly. "It _is_ the strangest case,Knox. It is a case of wheels within wheels, of mystery crowning mystery.Have you studied our host?"
"Closely."
"And what conclusion have you formed?"
"None at the moment; but I think one is slowly crystalizing."
"Hm," muttered Harley, as we paced slowly on amid the rose trees. "Ofone thing I am satisfied."
"What is that?"
"That Colonel Menendez is not afraid of Bat Wing, whoever or whateverBat Wing may be."
"Not afraid?"
"Certainly he is not afraid, Knox. He has possibly been afraid in thepast, but now he is resigned."
"Resigned to what?"
"Resigned to death!"
"Good God, Harley, you are right!" I cried. "You are right! I saw it inhis eyes as we left the library."
Harley stopped and turned to me sharply.
"You saw this in the Colonel's eyes?" he challenged.
"I did."
"Which corroborates my theory," he said, softly; "for _I_ had seen itelsewhere."
"Where do you mean, Harley?"
"In the face of Madame de Staemer."
"What?"
"Knox"--Harley rested his hand upon my arm and looked about himcautiously--"_she knows._"
"But knows what?"
"That is the question which we are here to answer, but I am as sureas it is humanly possible to be sure of anything that whatever ColonelMenendez may tell us to-night, one point at least he will withhold."
"What do you expect him to withhold?"
"The meaning of the sign of the Bat Wing."
"Then you think he knows its meaning?"
"He has told us that it is the death-token of Voodoo."
I stared at Harley in perplexity.
"Then you believe his explanation to be false?"
"Not necessarily, Knox. It may be what he claims for it. But he iskeeping something back. He speaks all the time from behind a barrierwhich he, himself, has deliberatel
y erected against me."
"I cannot understand why he should do so," I declared, as he lookedat me steadily. "Within the last few moments I have become definitelyconvinced that his appeal to you was no idle one. Therefore, why shouldhe not offer you every aid in his power?"
"Why, indeed?" muttered Harley.
"The same thing," I continued, "applies to Madame de Staemer. If ever Ihave seen love-light in a woman's eyes I have seen it in hers, to-day,whenever her glance has rested upon Colonel Menendez. Harley, I believeshe literally worships the ground he walks upon."
"She does, she does!" cried my companion, and emphasized the words withbeats of his clenched fist. "It is utterly, damnably mystifying. But Itell you, she knows, Knox, she knows!"
"You mean she knows that he is a doomed man?"
Harley nodded rapidly.
"They both know," he replied; "but there is something which they darenot divulge."
He glanced at me swiftly, and his bronzed face wore a peculiarexpression.
"Have you had an opportunity of any private conversation with Miss ValBeverley?" he enquired.
"Yes," I said. "Surely you remember that you found me chatting with herwhen you returned from your inspection of the tower."
"I remember perfectly well, but I thought you might have just met. Nowit appears to me, Knox, that you have quickly established yourself inthe good books of a very charming girl. My only reason for visitingthe tower was to afford you just this opportunity! Don't frown. Beyondreminding you of the fact that she has been on intimate terms withMadame de Staemer for some years, I will not intrude in any way upon yourprivate plans in that direction."
I stared at him, and I suppose my expression was an angry one.
"Surely you don't misunderstand me?" he said. "A cultured Englishgirl of that type cannot possibly have lived with these people withoutlearning something of the matters which are puzzling us so badly. Am Iasking too much?"
"I see what you mean," I said, slowly. "No, I suppose you are right,Harley."
"Good," he muttered. "I will leave that side of the enquiry in your verycapable hands, Knox."
He paused, and began to stare about him.
"From this point," said he, "we have an unobstructed view of the tower."
We turned and stood looking up at the unsightly gray structure, with itsgeometrical rows of windows and the minaret-like gallery at the top.
"Of course"--I broke a silence of some moments duration--"the entirescheme of Cray's Folly is peculiar, but the rooms, except for auniformity which is monotonous, and an unimaginative scheme ofdecoration which makes them all seem alike, are airy and welllighted, eminently sane and substantial. The tower, however, is quiteinexcusable, unless the idea was to enable the occupant to look over thetops of the trees in all directions."
"Yes," agreed Harley, "it is an ugly landmark. But yonder up the slope Ican see the corner of what seems to be a very picturesque house of somekind."
"I caught a glimpse of it earlier to-day," I replied. "Yes, from thispoint a little more of it is visible. Apparently quite an old place."
I paused, staring up the hillside, but Harley, hands locked behindhim and chin lowered reflectively, was pacing on. I joined him, and weproceeded for some little distance in silence, passing a gardener whotouched his cap respectfully and to whom I thought at first my companionwas about to address some remark. Harley passed on, however, stilloccupied, it seemed, with his reflections, and coming to a gravel pathwhich, bordering one side of the lawns, led down from terrace to terraceinto the valley, turned, and began to descend.
"Let us go and interview the swans," he murmured absently.
CHAPTER VII
AT THE LAVENDER ARMS