The place was laden with
tobacco smoke, and scattered on the carpet about the feet of the
writing table lay twenty or more pages of closely written manuscript.
Although this was a brilliant summer's morning, an old-fashioned
reading lamp, called, I believe, a Victoria, having a nickel receptacle
for oil at one side of the standard and a burner with a green glass
shade upon the other, still shed its light upon the desk. It was only
reasonable to suppose that Colin Camber had been at work all night.
He placed chairs for us, clearing them of the open volumes which they
bore, and, seating himself at the desk:
"Mr. Knox," he began, slowly, paused, and then stood up, "I accused you
of something when you last visited my house, something of which I would
not lightly accuse any man. If I was wrong, I wish to apologize."
"Only a matter of the utmost urgency could have induced me to cross
your threshold again," I replied, coldly. "Your behaviour, sir, was
inexcusable."
He rested his long white hands upon the desk, looking across at me.
"Whatever I did and whatever I said," he continued, "one insult I laid
upon you more deadly than the rest: I accused you of friendship with
Juan Menendez.
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