"What is this disturbance, Brown?" asked Brett angrily. "Who are these people?"
"It is the man, Brett!" cried Mr. Brown triumphantly, and pushing forward a burly and bearded individual in a shabby "guernsey" with a black rag tied in a knot round his neck. "Now just look at him, and tell me whether he has the slightest resemblance to John Darche."
"He is no more John Darche than I am! Take him away!"
"Out with you!" cried Stubbs, only too anxious to enforce the order.
"He said he was John Darche," said one of the men from Mulberry Street.
The man refused to be turned out by Stubbs and stood his ground, evidently anxious to clear himself. He was an honest-looking fellow enough, and there was a twinkle in his bright blue eyes as though he were by no means scared, but rather enjoyed the hubbub his presence created.
"No, sir," he said in a healthy voice that dominated the rest. "I am no more John Darche than you are, sir, unless that happens to be your name, which I ask your pardon if it is. But I said I was, and so the bobbies brought me along. But this gentleman here, he showed me the papers, that there was trouble about John Darche, so I just let them bring me, which I had no call to do, barring I liked, being a sailor man and quick on my feet."
"Well then, who are you?" asked Brett. "And where is John Darche?"
"John Darche is dead, sir, and I buried him on the Patagonian shore."
"Dead?" cried Brett. The colour rushed to his face, and for a moment the room swam with him. "Can you prove that, my man?"