Colin Camber's peculiarly pale complexion had assumed a truly ghastly
pallor, and he stood with tightly clenched hands, glaring at me almost
insanely.

"Mr. Camber," I cried, with concern, "are you unwell?"

He moistened his dry lips, and:

"You are returning--to Cray's Folly?" he said, speaking, it seemed,
with difficulty.

"I am, sir. I am staying with Colonel Menendez."

"Ah!"

He clutched the collar of his pyjama jacket and wrenched so strongly
that the button was torn off. His passion was incredible, insane. The
power of speech had almost left him.

"You are a guest of--of Devil Menendez," he whispered, and the speaking
of the name seemed almost to choke him. "Of--Devil Menendez. You--you--
are a spy. You have stolen my hospitality--you have obtained access to
my house under false pretences. God! if I had known!"

"Mr. Camber," I said, sternly, and realized that I, too, had clenched
my fists, for the man's language was grossly insulting, "you forget
yourself."

"Perhaps I do," he muttered, thickly; "and therefore"--he raised a
quivering forefinger--"go! If you have any spark of compassion in your