"I shivered when I heard what he said."
In the meantime, at the other end of the room, Mr. Brown was enjoying at last the supreme satisfaction of talking without reserve about the story he had seen in the papers that morning.
"One never knows what to believe," said Mrs. Willoughby.
"Believe nothing," said Vanbrugh with much conviction. "In particular, my dear Mrs. Willoughby, do not believe in Brown's tales. He is a perfectly idle man, and he does nothing but sleep and talk, because he has a liver and cannot eat. A man who has nothing to do requires a great deal of sleep and a great deal of conversation."
"I say, Russell, old man," protested Mr. Brown with a good-humoured laugh, "this is rather unkind. Where would you get your conversation if I did not supply you with the items? That is what one's best friends come to, Mrs. Willoughby, in this bustling world. And why should not people eat, sleep, and talk,—and do nothing else if they have time? But as for this story, I never pretended that it was anything but newspaper gossip—not even that—a sensation item, manufactured down town, perhaps. 'Woman burned alive in Jersey City,'—five lines—'Deny the report,'—five lines more—that is the sort of thing. But this is a strange coincidence, or a strange story. It might almost be poor Darche's case, with a sensational ending."
"Oh, well," answered Vanbrugh, who by this time quite understood the meaning of Brett's strange conduct before luncheon, "of course it is only a sensational paragraph, and belongs to your department, Brown. But as you say, the coincidences are extraordinary. A man says he fell overboard from a Channel boat, and was picked up by an Italian bark, which took him to Valparaiso after all sorts of adventures. The weak point in these stories generally is that the man never seems to take the trouble to communicate with his relations from the first port he reaches, and takes an awful lot of trouble to get shipwrecked somewhere on the way. But in this case that is the strong point. What did you say the fellow's name was?"
"Why, my dear man, that is three-quarters of the coincidence. He calls himself John Drake. Transpose the 'r' and the 'a,' and that looks uncommonly like John Darche."
"No doubt," said Vanbrugh; "but then there is nothing peculiar about 'John.' If he had been christened 'Eliphalet Xenophon' it would have been considerably stranger. Besides if he really were Darche he would not call himself either Darche or John."
"How can you suggest anything so dreadful!" exclaimed Mrs. Willoughby.