"'Tis no mystery, friend," he answered, looking out to sea, "but truly it is passing wonderful. Listen. I did not tell you that the man who gave me this grey suit fell sick, died, and was buried while we were still at sea. But so, alas! it was; and as I sat beside him when he lay a-raving in high fever, the name of Lyme was ever on his lips, together with the names of divers people, and one of these I swear was Gilbert Fane; for, although I took small notice at the time, your mention of it brings it clearly back to me. Now say, friend, is not all this strange beyond compare?"
"It is, indeed," I murmured, looking at him fixedly, as he stood with half-closed eyes before me. "And what was this luckless fellow's name?"
"Would that I could tell you; but I cannot. They picked him up at some outlandish place, and methinks 'twas that which made him treat me with such kindness; but when he died he left naught save his clothes, some knick-knacks, and a sword. There were no papers. The captain had his sword and clothes. One day as we sat a-talking he did let fall his name as if by accident; but then I took no heed, and so have clean forgotten it. Yet, if I heard it now, methinks I might remember it."
"But say, what manner of man was he?"
"A fine, upstanding fellow, with a ruddy face."
"Ah, there are, and have been, many such in Lyme. But, look you, if you care to come with me to our house, The Havering, methinks my father might assist you."
"Ah, many thanks, good friend, but 'twould be of no avail. I am but come to Lyme because he talked so much of it; and because I thought, by searching among the gravestones in your churchyard, I might perchance light on his name, and thus remember it. Aye, verily, I loved that man."
"How long have you been in England?"
"I came ashore three days ago at Bristol, and have been walking ever since."
"You must be weary, then."