“My draft,” said the other, “was drawn by Colonel Lionel Despard.”
A chill went to the heart of Potts. With a violent effort he shook off his fear.
“Pooh!” said he, “you’re at that old story, are you? That nonsense won’t do here.”
“It was dated at sea,” continued the stranger, in tones which still deepened in awful emphasis—“at sea, when the writer was all alone.”
“It’s a lie!” cried Potts, while his face grew white.
“At sea,” continued the other, ringing the changes on this one word, “at sea—on board that ship to which you had brought him—the Vishnu!”
Potts was like a man fascinated by some horrid spectacle. He looked fixedly at his interlocutor. His jaw fell.
“There he died,” said the stranger. “Who caused his death? Will you answer?”
With a tremendous effort Potts again recovered command of himself.
“You—you’ve been reading up old papers,” replied he, in a stammering voice. “You’ve got a lot of stuff in your head which you think will frighten me. You’ve come to the wrong shop.”