Bat-Wing by Sax Rohmer

chivalry
of France is imprisoned within her, I think."
    He passed cigarettes around, of a long kind resembling cheroots and
wrapped in tobacco leaf. I thought it strange that having thus
emphasized Madame's nationality he did not feel it incumbent upon him
to explain the mystery of their kinship. However, he made no attempt to
do so, and almost before we had lighted up, a racy little two-seater
was driven around the gravel path by Carter, the chauffeur who had
brought us to Cray's Folly from London.
    The man descended and began to arrange wraps and cushions, and a few
moments later back came Madame again, dressed for driving. Carter was
about to lift her into the car when Colonel Menendez stood up and
advanced.
    "Sit down, Juan, sit down!" said Madame, sharply.
    A look of keen anxiety, I had almost said of pain, leapt into her eyes,
and the Colonel hesitated.
    "How often must I tell you," continued the throbbing voice, "that you
must not exert yourself."
    Colonel Menendez accepted the rebuke humbly, but the incident struck me
as grotesque; for it was difficult to associate delicacy with such a
fine specimen of well-preserved manhood as the Colonel.
    However, Carter performed the duty of assisting Madame into her little
car, and when for a moment he supported her upright, before placing her
among the cushions, I noted that she was a tall woman, slender and
elegant.
    All smiles and light, sparkling conversation, she settled herself
comfortably at the wheel and Val Beverley got in beside her. Madame
nodded to Carter in dismissal, waved her hand to Colonel Menendez,
cried "Au revoir!" and then away went the little car, swinging around
the angle of the house and out of sight.
    Our host stood bare-headed upon the veranda listening to the sound of
the engine dying away among the trees. He seemed to be lost in
reflection from which he only aroused himself when the purr of the
motor became inaudible.
    "And now, gentlemen," he said, and suppressed a sigh, "we have much to
talk about. This spot is cool, but is it sufficiently private? Perhaps,
Mr. Harley, you would prefer to talk in the library?"
    Paul Harley flicked ash from the end of his cigarette.
    "Better still in your own study, Colonel Menendez," he replied.
    "What, do you suspect eavesdroppers?" asked the Colonel, his manner
becoming momentarily agitated.
    He looked at Harley as though he suspected the latter of possessing
private information.
    "We should neglect no possible precaution," answered my friend. "That
agencies inimical to your safety are focussed upon the house your own
statement amply demonstrates."
    Colonel Menendez seemed to be on the point of speaking again, but he
checked himself and in silence led the way through the ornate library
to a smaller room which opened out of it, and which was furnished as a
study.
    Here the motif was distinctly one of officialdom. Although the Southern
element was not lacking, it was not so marked as in the library or in
the hall. The place was appointed for utility rather than ornament.
Everything was in perfect order. In the library, with the blinds drawn,
one might have supposed oneself in Trinidad; in the study, under
similar conditions, one might equally well have imagined Downing Street
to lie outside the windows. Essentially, this was the workroom of a man
of affairs.
    Having settled ourselves comfortably, Paul Harley opened the
conversation.
    "In several particulars," said he, "I find my information to be
incomplete."
    He consulted the back of an envelope, upon which, I presumed during the
afternoon, he had made a number of pencilled notes.
    "For instance," he continued, "your detection of someone watching the
house, and subsequently of someone forcing an entrance, had no visible
association with the presence of the bat wing attached to your front
door?"
    "No," replied the Colonel, slowly, "these episodes took place a month
ago."
    "Exactly a month ago?"
    "They took place immediately before the last full moon."
    "Ah, before the