I retain no recollection of our conversation up to the time that we came to the Guest House.
We were admitted by a really charming old lady, who informed us that her name was Mrs. Powis and that she was but an hour returned from London, whither she had been summoned by telegram.
She showed us into a quaint, small drawing room which owed its atmosphere quite clearly to Mrs. Camber, for whereas the study was indescribably untidy, this was a model of neatness without being formal or unhomely. Here, in a few moments, Mrs. Camber joined us, an appealing little figure of wistful, almost elfin, beauty. I was surprised and delighted to find that an instant bond of sympathy sprang up between the two girls. I diplomatically left them together for a while, going into Camber’s room to smoke my pipe. And when I returned:
“Oh, Mr. Knox,” said Val Beverley, “Mrs. Camber has something to tell you which she thinks you ought to know.”
“Concerning Colonel Menendez?” I asked, eagerly.
Mrs. Camber nodded her golden head.
“Yes,” she replied, but glancing at Val Beverley as if to gather confidence. “The truth can never hurt Colin. He has nothing to conceal. May I tell you?”
“I am all anxiety to hear,” I assured her.
“Would you rather I went, Mrs. Camber?” asked Val Beverley.
Mrs. Camber reached across and took her hand.
“Please, no,” she replied. “Stay here with me. I am afraid it is rather a long story.”
“Never mind,” I said. “It will be time well spent if it leads us any nearer to the truth.”
