"How could I?"
"Quite so," murmured Harley, absently, and evidently pursuing some
private train of thought. "And now, I take it that your suspicions, if
expressed in words would amount to this: During your last visit to Cuba
you (_a_) either killed some high priest of Voodoo, or (_b_) seriously
injured him? Assuming the first theory to be the correct one, your
death was determined upon by the sect over which he had formerly
presided. Assuming the second to be accurate, however, it is presumably
the man himself for whom we must look. Now, Colonel Menendez, kindly
inform me if you recall the name of this man?"
"I recall it very well," replied the Colonel. "His name was M'kombo,
and he was a Benin negro."
"Assuming that he is still alive, what, roughly, would his age be to-
day?"
The Colonel seemed to meditate, pushing a box of long Martinique cigars
across the table in my direction.
"He would be an old man," he pronounced. "I, myself, am fifty-two, and
I should say that M'kombo if alive to-day would be nearer to seventy
than sixty."
"Ah," murmured Harley, "and did he speak English?"
"A few words, I believe.
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