Madame de Staemer's gaiety rang more false than ever. She twirled the
rings upon her slender fingers and shot little enquiring glances all
around the table. This spirit of unrest, from wherever it arose, had
communicated itself to everybody. Madame's several bon mots one and all
were failures. She delivered them without conviction like an amateur
repeating lines learned by heart. The Colonel was unusually silent,
eating little but drinking much. There was something unreal, almost
ghastly, about the whole affair; and when at last Madame de Staemer
retired, bearing Val Beverley with her, I felt certain that the Colonel
would make some communication to us. If ever knowledge of portentous
evil were written upon a man's face it was written upon his, as he sat
there at the head of the table, staring straightly before him. However:

"Gentlemen," he said, "if your enquiries here have led to no result of,
shall I say, a tangible character, at least I feel sure that you must
have realized one thing."

Harley stared at him sternly.

"I have realized, Colonel Menendez," he replied, "that something is
pending."

"Ah!" murmured the Colonel, and he clutched the edge of the table with
his strong brown hands.

"But," continued my friend, "I have realized something more. You have
asked for my aid, and I am here. Now you have deliberately tied my
hands."