“What can I do for you, Mr. Campenhaye?” he asked, with a little tremor as of anxiety in his voice. “It’s not—not, I hope, about poor Mr. James?” “That, Mr. Armstead, is precisely what it is,” I answered. “Now, remember, we speak together in the strictest secrecy?” “Oh, yes, yes, sir—of course!” he exclaimed. “I understand. But—what can I tell you, Mr. Campenhaye?” I drew out the little leather-covered case, and held it out to him, open. “This,” I said. “For whom did you make, or to whom did you supply, this artificial eye?” I thought for an instant that he was going to fall, for he swayed visibly, and his face became very pale. But he steadied himself and took the case from me, his hand trembling visibly.
