"Gentlemen," said the Colonel, also rising, in spite of our protests,
"I will observe your wishes. My guests' wishes are mine. We will meet
the ladies for tea on the terrace."
Harley and I walked out into the garden together, our courteous host
standing in the open window, and bowing in that exaggerated fashion
which in another might have been ridiculous but which was possible in
Colonel Menendez, because of the peculiar grace of deportment which was
his.
As we descended the steps I turned and glanced back, I know not why.
But the impression which I derived of the Colonel's face as he stood
there in the shadow of the veranda was one I can never forget.
His expression had changed utterly, or so it seemed to me. He no longer
resembled Velasquez' haughty cavalier; gone, too, was the debonnaire
bearing, I turned my head aside swiftly, hoping that he had not
detected my backward glance.
I felt that I had violated hospitality. I felt that I had seen what I
should not have seen. And the result was to bring about that which no
story of West Indian magic could ever have wrought in my mind.
A dreadful, cold premonition claimed me, a premonition that this was a
doomed man.
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