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Page 62
"You hate them?"
"No, I cannot hate them, for he is one. But he will never go back."
"Why should he never go back, Mrs. Camber?"
"Because of me."
"You mean that you do not wish to settle in America?"
"I could not--not where he comes from. They would not have me."
Her eyes grew misty, and she quickly lowered her lashes.
"Would not have you?" I exclaimed. "I don't understand."
"No?" she said, and smiled up at me very gravely. "It is simple. I am a
Cuban, one, as they say, of an inferior race--and of mixed blood."
She shook her golden head as if to dismiss the subject, and stood up,
as Camber entered, followed by Ah Tsong bearing a tray of refreshments.
Of the ensuing conversation I remember nothing. My mind was focussed
upon the one vital fact that Mrs. Camber was a Cuban Creole. Dimly I
felt that here was the missing link for which Paul Harley was groping.
For it was in Cuba that Colin Camber had met his wife, it was from Cuba
that the menace of Bat Wing came.
What could it mean? Surely it was more than a coincidence that these
two families, both associated with the West Indies, should reside
within sight of one another in the Surrey Hills. Yet, if it were the
result of design, the design must be on the part of Colonel Menendez,
since the Cambers had occupied the Guest House before he had leased
Cray's Folly.
I know not if I betrayed my absentmindedness during the time that I was
struggling vainly with these maddening problems, but presently, Mrs.
Camber having departed about her household duties, I found myself
walking down the garden with her husband.
"This is the summer house of which I was speaking, Mr. Knox," he said,
and I regret to state that I retained no impression of his having
previously mentioned the subject. "During the time that Sir James
Appleton resided at Cray's Folly, I worked here regularly in the summer
months. It was Sir James, of course, who laid out the greater part of
the gardens and who rescued the property from the state of decay into
which it had fallen."
I aroused myself from the profitless reverie in which I had become
lost. We were standing before a sort of arbour which marked the end of
the grounds of the Guest House. It overhung the edge of a miniature
ravine, in which, over a pebbly course, a little stream pursued its way
down the valley to feed the lake in the grounds of Cray's Folly.
From this point of vantage I could see the greater part of Colonel
Menendez's residence. I had an unobstructed view of the tower and of
the Tudor garden.
"I abandoned my work-shop," pursued Colin Camber, "when the--er--the
new tenant took up his residence. I work now in the room in which you
found me this morning."
He sighed, and turning abruptly, led the way back to the house, holding
himself very erect, and presenting a queer figure in his threadbare
dressing gown.
It was now a perfect summer's day, and I commented upon the beauty of
the old garden, which in places was bordered by a crumbling wall.
"Yes, a quaint old spot," said Camber. "I thought at one time, because
of the name of the house, that it might have been part of a monastery
or convent. This was not the case, however. It derives its name from a
certain Sir Jaspar Guest, who flourished, I believe, under King Charles
of merry memory."
"Nevertheless," I added, "the Guest House is a charming survival of
more spacious days."
"True," returned Colin Camber, gravely. "Here it is possible to lead
one's own life, away from the noisy world," he sighed again wearily.
"Yes, I shall regret leaving the Guest House."
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