The green-eyed man spoke slowly, as if forming each word in his mind before pronouncing it. The rest squatted with eyes riveted on his face.
"I have not talked before because I had to find myself. I had to hear English spoken and become used to it. I had to put things together in my mind. Even now some things are not clear. But I can talk and make sense of my talk. I will tell what I can remember. First tell me one thing. McKay, am I a murderer?"
"A murderer? You? If you are we never heard of it."
"A man named Schmidt. Gustav Schmidt. German merchant at Manaos."
"Gustav Schmidt? Piggy little runt, bald and fat, with a scar across his chin?"
"Yes."
"He's dead, but you didn't kill him. He was shot a little while ago by a young Brazilian for getting too intimate with the young fellow's wife. We heard about it while we were in Manaos, and saw his picture. What about him?"
"I thought I killed him. I struck him with a bottle. I was told he was dead. How long have I been here?"
"You left the States in 1915. It is now 1920."
"Five years? My God! What has happened in that time? Is my mother well?"