He stepped out into the passage and entered the opposite room. A minute later he returned, and, having shut the door behind him, took the chair opposite mine.
"Now," he enquired genially, "what's the trouble?"
I suppose that the task of listening to the most incredible stories is just part and parcel of a detective's business. Few men had probably had more experience in this line than Campbell himself, but as I began to speak I wondered in my own mind if he had ever encountered such a strange yarn as the one which I was about to unfold.
Following the same course that I had adopted with Bobby, I once more described my first meeting with Christine and her uncle that sunny afternoon in Manaos Harbour. Then, step by step, and taking infinite pains to omit nothing which might be of the least significance, I laid bare the whole amazing train of incidents which had led up to my present visit.
As a feat of uninterrupted talking (for, unlike Bobby, Campbell made no attempt even to ask a question) it was the nearest approach to a record that I am ever likely to achieve. Long before I had finished my voice was as hoarse as a crow's, and even now I can remember the feeling of relief with which I lay back in my chair when it was all over, and gazed expectantly into the shrewd, wide-awake eyes of my apparently unwearied companion.
It was he who was the first to break the silence.
"I congratulate you on a really remarkable performance, Mr. Dryden," he observed. "I have never met anyone who would make a better witness."
"Well, if that's the case," I replied, "I hope to God my abilities will be wasted."
Campbell looked at me for a moment with a queer, half-quizzical smile; then very suddenly his expression changed to one of the utmost gravity.
"Aye," he said in his harsh North country accent, "it's a serious enough matter in all conscience. The pity is that you couldn't come to me before. It might have saved one poor fellow's life anyway."