Brett stood before the fireplace as the reporter entered the room--a
quiet, pale young man with a pinched face, smooth brown hair and thin
hands which somehow conveyed the impression of sadness.
"I asked to see Mrs. Darche," he said apologetically.
"Mrs. Darche is engaged," answered Brett. "I am a friend of hers and
will answer any questions so far as I can."
"Thank you. I have no doubt, sir, that you are often troubled by us.
You know the reporter has to be everywhere. I will not take any more of
your time than I can help. I understand that Mrs. Darche and her
friends are to take part in some tableaux for a charitable purpose at
the end of the week--"
"I fancy there is some mistake about that," said Brett. "Mrs. Darche is
in mourning."
"Precisely," said Mr. Wood. "I daresay Mrs. Darche would be glad to
have the report denied. I understand, then, that there are not to be
any tableaux."
"I believe there is to be something of the kind, but Mrs. Darche has
nothing to do with the affair--beyond giving her advice, I think. She
would certainly not care very much to be talked of in the papers just
now."
"Just so," replied Mr. Wood readily. "I quite understand that there is
a prejudice against it, and of course Mrs. Darche's name shall not
appear. But you do not know what a great interest our readers take in
social doings. Our paper has a very large circulation in the West."
"I am very glad to know it. Would it not be enough just to mention the
fact that there are to be some tableaux for a charity?"
"If you would give me a hint about the subjects. Historical? One or two
names would be very useful."
"Really I do not think that any of us care to see our names in the
paper," said Brett.
"I will be as discreet as you wish--Mr.--"
"My name is Brett."
"Mr. Brett," repeated the reporter, making a note. "May I inquire, Mr.
Brett, if you yourself take a part in the entertainment?"
"Well--yes--I do."
"Any particular costume?"
"Yes--" Brett hesitated slightly and smiled. "Yes. Particular costumes
are rather the rule in tableaux."
"I do not wish to be indiscreet, of course."
"No, I daresay not. I believe I am to be Darnley."
"Thank you." Here Mr. Wood made another note. "Miss Maylands as Queen
Mary Stuart? Is the report correct?"
"I believe so," answered Brett, coldly.
"Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Brett. If you could oblige me with one or
two more names I could fix it nicely."
"I suppose, Mr. Wood, that you mean to say something about it whether I
tell you or not?"
"Well, now, Mr. Brett," replied the reporter, assuming a more
confidential manner, "to be quite frank, that is just what happens. We
do not like to tire people out with questions they do not care to
answer, but the social column has to be filled somehow, and if we do
not get the news for it, it is sometimes made up in the office."
"So I have often been led to believe from reading it," said Brett.
"There are to be three tableaux, from well-known pictures, in which
Miss Maylands, Mr. Russell Vanbrugh, myself, and a few others are to
take part. The affair is to take place, I think, at Mrs. Trehearne's
house."
"Thank you, Mr. Brett. Dancing afterwards?"
"I do not know."
"Pardon me. Supper furnished by Delmonico, I suppose?"
"Well I really have not asked. I daresay."
"Thank you, Mr. Brett. Delmonico." Mr. Wood's pencil noted the fact.
Brett began to think that he had had enough of the interview, and
deliberately lighting a cigarette looked at the reporter. "Anything
else you would like to know, Mr. Wood?"
"Well, since you have been so very obliging, Mr. Brett, I would like to
ask you a question."
"All right," said Brett, resignedly. "Go ahead."
"Mrs. Darche is a widow, I understand."
"Yes."
"Mr. Darche was the unfortunate victim of an accident several months
ago, I believe?"
"Yes."
"Then of course there can be no truth in the story that he arrived in
New York yesterday?"
"What story?" Brett asked, turning sharply upon the young man.
"I thought perhaps you might have seen it in this morning's paper,"
answered Wood quietly. "But perhaps you would not have noticed it, as
there was a misprint in the name. A man came to the office yesterday
and told the editor in charge that Mr. John Darche, who fell overboard
last spring from a steamer, and was supposed to have been drowned, had
turned up, and that he had seen him. I guess he was a crank. There are
lots of them hanging around the office, and sometimes they get a drink
for a bit of sensation."
"Oh! is that the way news is manufactured?" inquired Brett, with some
contempt.
"Not in our office, Mr. Brett," replied the reporter, drawing himself
up. "You can see for yourself that we only get our information from
the most reliable sources. If that were not so, I should not have
disturbed you to-day. But as there is no doubt in your mind that Mr.
Darche is positively dead, I daresay that Mrs. Darche would be glad to
have the report of her husband's return contradicted?"
"I do not think it matters much, since the name was printed Drake."
"Pardon me," said Wood. "Some of the papers printed it correctly, and
others are going to do so. I just saw two gentlemen from an evening
paper, and they have got it straight for this afternoon."
"You do not mean to say that the papers believe the story?" asked Brett
in real or affected surprise.
"Oh no, Mr. Brett, they give it for what it is worth."
"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."
"On the contrary, it was a calm, warm night in May. It is certainly
strange that they should not have been able to save him. That ought to
prove beyond question that he sank at once."
"There is no doubt about that, I should think," replied the reporter
without much conviction. "I won't detain you any longer, Mr. Brett. The
report shall be denied at once. Will you allow me to use your name as
authority for these details?"
"Everybody knows the story."
"Pardon me. Our paper has a very large circulation in the West, and a
well-known name like yours lends great weight to any statement."
"I did not know that my name was so particularly well known," observed
Brett.
"Why, certainly, Mr. Brett. Your yacht won a race last year. I remember
it very well."
"That might be a claim to distinction, but I never had a yacht."
"Not fond of the sea, Mr. Brett?"
"Oh, yes, I like it well enough," said Brett, rising, as though he
wished it understood that the interview was at an end. "You will
distinctly deny this report, will you not?"
"You can rely upon me to say just what you have said to me, Mr. Brett."
"Very well. Thank you. Then you will be good enough to say that there
is not a word of truth in it, and warn people against the man who calls
himself Darche?"
"Certainly, certainly. Thank you, Mr. Brett. Good morning, Mr. Brett."
"Good morning."
Brett followed the reporter with his eyes till the door closed behind
him. He felt as though he had distinctly got the worst of it in the
encounter, and yet he could not see how he could have said less. And
that was how stories got about, he thought. If he had not seen the
reporter,--if the latter had been turned away as Mrs. Darche had
intended, the story of Darche's return would have been reported again
and again. That, at least, thought Brett, was prevented for the
present.
Nevertheless, as he stood alone during those few moments before sending
word to Marion that the reporter was gone, Brett's face betrayed his
terrible anxiety. He hesitated. More than once his hand went out
towards the bell and dropped again by his side. At last he made up his
mind, touched the button, and sent Stubbs with his message to Mrs.
Darche.
"Well?" she asked as she entered the room.
"It is all right," he answered. "It was about the charity tableaux. I
did not want to go away without seeing you, so I sent Stubbs--"
"You are not going this moment?" Marion looked at him in surprise.
She was further than ever from understanding him. He seemed to act
suddenly and irrationally. A quarter of an hour earlier he had been
almost his old self, in spite of his strange references to a mystery
which he could not communicate to her, and now he had changed again and
resumed the incomprehensible manner he had affected of late. He seemed
anxious to get away from her, even at the cost of seeming rude. Then,
as he held out his hand to say good-bye, he surprised her more than
ever.
"If you will allow me," he said, "I will come back in the course of the
afternoon."
"Certainly," she answered, staring at him as she shook hands.
A moment later he was gone, leaving Marion in considerable perplexity
and some anxiety of mind.
When Brett left the house he went in search of Vanbrugh, whom he
ultimately found at a club. The conversation which had taken place
between three men who were spending the long afternoon between
letter-writing, the papers, and gossip, is worth recording.
It was about five o'clock. The names of the men were Goss, Greene, and
Bewlay, and they were rather insignificant persons, but gentlemen, and
all acquainted with the actors of this story. Goss was seated in a deep
leathern easy-chair with a paper. Greene was writing a letter, and
Bewlay was exceedingly busy with a cigar while waiting for some one to
say something.
"Well!" exclaimed Goss. "That beats the record!"
"I say," said Greene, looking up and speaking sharply, "I wish you
would not startle a fellow in that way. My nerves are not of the best
any way. What is the matter?"
"Oh, nothing in particular," said the first speaker. "John Darche has
come back to life again. I thought he was drowned last May."
"Stuff!" ejaculated Greene, testily.
"All right. I do not want to disturb your correspondence."
"What is that about John Darche?" inquired Bewlay, delighted at hearing
a voice.
"Some rubbish or other," answered Goss. "It is the fashion to resurrect
people nowadays--sort of way the newspapers have of getting ahead of
the day of judgment. If this goes on, that entertainment will not
draw."
"What is it, any way?"
"Headlines to begin with. 'The return of the prodigal--John W. Darche,
alive and asking questions. Accident--not suicide--interview with Mr.
Henry C. Brett.'"
"What the dickens has Brett got to do with it?" asked Greene, looking
up from his letter again.
"They say he is engaged to marry Mrs. Darche," said Bewlay, in
explanation.
"That is another ridiculous story," answered Greene. "I happen to know
he is as good as engaged to Miss Maylands."
"Let me see the paper, please," said Bewlay.
"No, I will read it," said Goss, shifting his position so as to get a
better light. "Then you can all hear. 'Our reporter called this
afternoon at the house of Mrs. John W. Darche, the beautiful and
accomplished widow who so long dispensed her hospitality in Lexington
Avenue. The beauteous lady was doubtless engaged in the consideration
of the costumes for certain charity tableaux in which her mourning
prevents her from taking a part, but in which her artistic taste and
advice are invaluable to the performers, and our reporter was received
by Mr. Henry C. Brett, the well-known lawyer, yachtsman, and patron of
the turf, who is to play the part of Darnley to Miss Maylands' Queen
Mary of Scotland in the artistic treat which awaits the favoured and
charitable to whom invitations have been tendered. Mr. Brett was kind
enough to answer a few questions regarding the report of Mr. John
Darche's return to New York which appeared in the morning papers. Mr.
Brett affected to treat the story with unconcern, but it was evident
from his anxious manner and from his somewhat nervous bearing that he
was deeply moved, though he bravely "took arms against the sea of
troubles." Mr. Brett said repeatedly in the course of the conversation
that the story was an absurd fabrication, and if there was a man going
around calling himself John Darche he ought to be in jail. He professed
to be quite sure that Mr. Darche was dead, but was obliged to admit
that there was no evidence forthcoming to certify to the tragedy. "The
accident," said Mr. Brett, "happened on board of a channel steamer more
than seven months ago. It was a calm, warm night in May. Two ladies
were lying in their chairs on the quarter-deck engaged in conversation.
Suddenly in the mysterious gloom they noticed the muffled figure of a
gentleman passenger leaning over the rail hard by them. A moment later
the figure was gone. There was a dull splash and all was over. They at
once realised the horrid situation and cried aloud for help, but there
seems to have been no one else on deck in that part of the boat. Many
minutes elapsed before they could explain what they had seen, and the
necessary orders were given for stopping the steamer. The Captain then
retraced his course, lowered a number of boats, and every effort was
made to prosecute the search until far into the night when the steamer,
which carried mails, was reluctantly obliged to resume her way. His
body," said Mr. Brett in conclusion, "was never found." Mr. Brett, as
was very natural, was more than anxious that the report should be
denied, but in the face of the facts he himself stated with such
pellucid clearness, it is impossible to say conscientiously that the
story of Mr. Darche's return may not be true. The fact remains that a
gentleman whose name is undoubtedly Darche is now in New York, and if
he is really Mr. John Darche of Lexington Avenue, steps will be taken
to set all doubts at rest before twenty-four hours have expired.' I
daresay you are not surprised at my exclamation now, after reading
that," said Goss, looking round at his hearers. "Pretty serious for
Brett."
"Pretty serious for Mrs. Darche," observed Greene.
"Pretty serious for everybody," said Bewlay, smoking thoughtfully.
"That is," suggested Greene, "if it is not all a fake, which is
probably the truth about it."
"Has anybody seen Brett here?" inquired Goss.
At this point the conversation was interrupted by the entry of Mr.
Brown, who was also a member of the club.
"Is Brett here?" he asked, looking about.
"Just what I was asking," answered Goss. "I suppose you have seen
this?"
"About Darche? Yes. I am afraid it is true."
"What! You do not believe it?" Greene was the most sceptical of the
party.
"Have you seen him?" asked Bewlay.
"No," answered Mr. Brown. "I have not seen him, but I mean to before
long. This is much too serious to be flying about in the papers like
this. Imagine what would happen if it fell into Mrs. Darche's hands.
Why it is enough to kill any ordinary woman on the spot! To think that
that infernal blackguard may not be dead after all."
"You seem to feel rather strongly on the subject," observed Greene.
"Are you engaged to marry Mrs. Darche too?"
"Nonsense!" ejaculated Brown. "I am in earnest. Just put yourself in
her position."
"For my part I had rather not," replied Goss with a smile. "But I agree
with Brown. A more unmitigated blackguard than John Darche never
breathed the unholy air of Wall Street. The only decent thing about him
was his suicide, and now virtue is to be cheated of that."
"Mrs. Darche never speaks of him, I believe?" The question came from
Bewlay.
"He did not return the civility," said Goss. "I have heard him talk
about his wife in this very room--well--I won't say how, but he was a
brute."
"Judging from your language you must be talking about Darche," said a
fifth speaker. Vanbrugh had entered the room.
"Yes," answered Brown, "we were. The damning was going on, but we had
not got to the faint praise. What do you think about all this,
Vanbrugh?"
"The question must be settled one way or the other before to-night,"
answered the last comer. "If Darche is really alive the fact must be
kept quiet until to-morrow and then some one must tell his wife. I
propose that we elect a committee of action, give up our dinner parties
if we have any, and go and find the fellow."
"That sounds like good advice," said Brown.
"We might as well look for a Chinaman in Pekin," put in Greene, "as to
try to hunt out any particular tough in the Bowery at this time of
day."
"We can try any way," said Mr. Brown, who was of a hopeful temperament.
"I am not engaged to dine anywhere, are you, Vanbrugh?"
"No."
"Then come along." They turned towards the door and were just going out
when Brett met them, looking very white.
"Hello, Brett!" exclaimed Brown. "You are the very man we have been
looking for. Come along with us and find John Darche."
"Wait a minute," said Vanbrugh, interposing. "Have you seen this
interview?" He took the paper from Greene and gave it to Brett, who
read rapidly while the others looked on, talking in undertones.
"Damn!" he exclaimed, turning to the others. "Have you all been reading
this stuff? I hope you do not believe that is what I said? A man came
to the house after luncheon. You fellows had just gone and I was going.
Mrs. Darche did not want to see him, but I advised her to let me tell
him what ought to be said about this affair. He tried to pump me about
the charity tableaux and then asked me about Darche. I told him that it
was all an absurd fabrication, and he promised to say so and to deny
all reports. And this is the result."
"Of course it is," said Greene. "The natural result of putting yourself
into any reporter's hands."
"I would like to say a word for the reporter," said Mr. Brown mildly.
"The paper is not his. He does not edit it. He does not get a share of
the profits, and when he interviews people he merely is doing what he
has undertaken to do. He is earning his living."
"Marriage and death and reporters make barren our lives," observed
Greene sourly, and some of the men laughed.
"I say, Brett, how much of this did you actually say?" asked Vanbrugh.
"Not a word, it seems to me. And yet I see some of my own phrases
worked in." He picked up the paper and looked at it again. "Yes, I did
say that it was a warm May night. I did say that his body was never
found. Yes, that is true enough. How the deuce does the fellow manage
to twist it so?"
"Does it not strike you that the reporter has only shown you your own
account in the light in which other people will look at it?" inquired
Mr. Brown, sententiously.
"Oh, confound it all, Brown, how can you say such a thing?" exclaimed
Brett.
"Well, I will explain," replied Mr. Brown. "Here are the facts, by your
own showing. On a warm evening in spring, and in calm weather, John
Darche fell overboard. I do not say he threw himself overboard, though
it was said that he did, to get away from the detective, possibly it
may have been an accident after all. We do not know. He was seen to go
over by some one, possibly by two ladies. It was very likely at
supper-time. We do not know that either. But it is quite sure that
there were not many people about. The ladies screamed, as was natural,
called for help and all that sort of thing. But on a calm May night
those channel boats run very fast. They did not cry out 'man
overboard!' as a sailor would have done, and very probably five minutes
elapsed before the Captain gave the order to stop. In that time the
boat would have run a mile and a half. It could not stop inside of half
a mile. Well, do you know anything about the tides and currents in the
Channel? The steamer could not have gone back to the point at which
Darche was lost much inside of twenty minutes. In that time the current
may have carried him a mile or more in one direction or the other.
Every one remembers that Darche was a good swimmer. As it happened in
May, he was not burdened with an overcoat, or thick boots, and there
are always vessels about in the Channel. Why is it so very improbable
that he should have been picked up by one, outward bound--"
While he was speaking, Brett played nervously with an unlighted cigar,
which he held in his hand.
"A sailing-vessel outward bound from England to South America would not
be in the Channel," observed Vanbrugh.
"Nobody said she was from England," retorted Brown. "She may have been
from Amsterdam. A great many Italian vessels take in cargo there."
"Surely she would have stopped and put Darche ashore," said Greene with
conviction. But the others laughed.
"You are not much of a sailor," said Brown. "You cannot stop a
sailing-vessel, as you express it, and run into any harbour you like as
though she were a steam-tug. To put back might mean a loss of two or
three weeks to the captain. Upon my soul, Vanbrugh, I cannot see why it
is so improbable."
"You are not in earnest, Brown?" asked Brett anxiously.
"I am, though. A case like that happened not very long ago. Everybody
knows about it. It is a fact. A man came back and found his wife
married to somebody else."
"Enoch Arden!" suggested Greene contemptuously.
"Precisely the same thing. The man had been living somewhere near San
Francisco. After he came back he found his wife had married an old
friend of his--a very good fellow. He would not break her heart, so he
went off to live by himself in the Rockies."
"I wish you would stop!" exclaimed Brett, almost livid.
"I wonder it does not strike you in the same way," continued Mr. Brown,
unmoved. "You are a lawyer, Vanbrugh. Now just argue the case, and meet
my points."
"Well really, you do put the case pretty strongly," answered Vanbrugh
thoughtfully. "If you look at it in that way, there certainly is a bare
shadow of a possibility that Darche may have come back."
"Good God, Vanbrugh, don't!" cried Brett.
"I cannot quite help it." Vanbrugh drew Brown a little aside and spoke
in a lower tone, but Brett, who could scarcely control himself, moved
up behind them. "Look here, Brown," said Vanbrugh, "we ought not to
talk like this before Brett. After all, it is a mere possibility, one
chance in a thousand."
"Considering the peculiarities of the name," argued Mr. Brown, "there
are more chances than that."
"Possibly. But why should he go to the newspaper office instead of
hiding altogether, or getting away from New York by the next steamer?"
"That is true," assented Mr. Brown.
"I say, you fellows," cried Brett, coming between them. "Stop that,
won't you? You are both infatuated. Why, you must be mad! Everybody
knows he is dead."
"It is certainly probable," said Mr. Brown doubtfully, "but it is not
sure."
"Do not get excited, Brett," said Vanbrugh. "There are a lot of men
looking on. Go home and leave it to us. We will find the man and see
him before to-night."
"I am going with you," said Brett resolutely.
"No, you are not," said Vanbrugh, looking at him curiously. "You are no
good. You are losing your head already. Go home and keep quiet."
"Yes, it would be much better," urged Mr. Brown. "Besides, two of us
are quite enough."
"You do not really believe it," Brett said suddenly, after a moment's
hesitation.
"Oh no, I suppose not," answered Vanbrugh with affected indifference.
"Cheer up, old man!" said Mr. Brown. "There may not be anything in it
after all."
"May not!" exclaimed Brett. "I ought not to be here, anyhow," he added,
speaking to Vanbrugh. "He may ring at her door at any moment." And
without further words he disappeared into the hall.
"Brett seems to be pretty badly rattled," remarked Greene.
"Yes," answered Goss. "Strange, is it not? Yet you are quite sure that
he is to marry Miss Maylands?"
"It is not safe to be sure of anything," said Greene, going back to
the writing-table and folding his letter.
"I believe it is true that he has come back," mused Bewlay, relighting
his cigar.
"There certainly is a possibility," said Vanbrugh.
"Of course there is," assented Mr. Brown.
"I almost believe it myself," said Greene, rising and going out with
his letter.
"It is a queer story, is it not?" observed Goss.
"Yes," answered Bewlay. "It has made me quite thirsty."
"Well, this is a good stopping-place," replied the other. "Ten minutes
for refreshments."