“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.”
215
