"Exactly."

"You may be right," he murmured, proceeding upstairs.

He led the way to a little smoke-room which hitherto I had never
visited, and in response to his knock:

"Come in," cried the high voice of Colonel Menendez.

We entered to find ourselves in a small and very cosy room. There was a
handsome oak bureau against one wall, which was littered with papers of
various kinds, and there was also a large bookcase occupied almost
exclusively by French novels. It occurred to me that the Colonel spent
a greater part of his time in this little snuggery than in the more
formal study below. At the moment of our arrival he was stretched upon
a settee near which stood a little table; and on this table I observed
the remains of what appeared to me to have been a fairly substantial
repast. For some reason which I did not pause to analyze at the moment
I noted with disfavour the presence of a bowl of roses upon the silver
tray.

Colonel Menendez was smoking a cigarette, and Manoel was in the act of
removing the tray.

"Gentlemen," said the Colonel, "I have no words in which to express my
sorrow. Manoel, pull up those armchairs. Help yourself to port, Mr.
Harley, and fill Mr. Knox's glass. I can recommend the cigars in the
long box."