"With headlines a foot high, I suppose?"
"Well, perhaps some of the papers will do so," answered the young man with a smile.
Brett's manner changed as he realised that he could not afford to let the reporter take away a wrong impression. He sat down and pointed to a chair. "Take a cigarette, Mr. Wood."
"No, I thank you, I do not smoke. Thank you."
Mr. Wood sat down upon the edge of the chair beside Brett, who looked at him fixedly for a moment before speaking. "I do not suppose that it is necessary for me to repeat that this story is an absurd fabrication, and that if there is a man who is going about and calling himself John Darche, he ought to be in jail."
"Certainly, Mr. Brett, I am quite of that opinion."
"Then would you mind helping me to get hold of him? Where is the man to be heard of?"
"That is another matter, Mr. Brett. I shall be happy to see that the report is denied. But whether the man is an impostor or not, it will be hard to find him. That will not matter. We will explain everything to-morrow morning, and it will all be forgotten by the next day. You say you are quite sure, Mr. Brett, that Mr. Darche was not picked up when he fell overboard?"
"Sure!" answered Brett, authoritatively.
"I see," said Wood. "Thank you. I understand that it was in winter, in rough weather, and that the efforts made to save him were in vain."