“The police? Of what interest can this be to me?”
Harley’s keen eyes were searching the pale face of the man before him.
“Mr. Camber,” he said, “the shot was a good one.”
Not a muscle of Colin Camber’s face moved, but slowly he looked Paul Harley up and down, then:
“I have been called a hasty man,” he replied, coldly, “but I can scarcely be accused of leaping to a conclusion when I say that I believe you to be mad. You have interrupted me, sir. Good morning.”
He stepped back, and would have closed the door, but:
“Mr. Camber,” said Paul Harley, and the tone of his voice was arresting.
Colin Camber paused.
“My name is evidently unfamiliar to you,” Harley continued. “You regard myself and Mr. Knox as friends of the late Colonel Menendez”
At that Colin Camber started forward.
“The late Colonel Menendez?” he echoed, speaking almost in a whisper.
But as if he had not heard him Harley continued:
“As a matter of fact, I am a criminal investigator, and Mr. Knox is assisting me in my present case.”
Colin Camber clenched his hands and seemed to be fighting with some emotion which possessed him, then:
“Do you mean,” he said, hoarsely—“do you mean that Menendez is—dead?”
“I do,” replied Harley. “May I request the privilege of ten minutes’ private conversation with you?”
Colin Camber stood aside, holding the door open, and inclining his head in that grave salutation which I knew, but on this occasion, I think, principally with intent to hide his emotion.
