Once it had happened that Crammon was dining with a few friends at
Baden-Baden. He had just returned from Scotland where he had visited
the famous trout streams of MacPherson, and had left the train at the
end of a long journey. He felt very tired, and after the meal lay down
on a sofa and fell asleep.
His friends chatted for a while, until his deep breathing drew their
attention to him, and they decided to perpetrate a jest at his expense.
One of them shook him by the shoulder, and when he opened his eyes
asked: “Listen, Bernard, can’t you tell us what is the matter with Lord
Darlington? Where is he? Why is he never heard of any more?”
Crammon without a moment’s hesitation answered in a clear voice and
with an almost solemn seriousness: “Darlington is on his yacht in
the Bay of Liguria between Leghorn and Nice. What time is it? Three
o’clock? Then he is just about to take the sedative which his Italian
physician, Magliano, prepares and gives him.”
He turned on his other side and slept on.
One of the men, who knew Crammon only slightly, said: “That’s a pure
invention!” The others assured the doubter that Crammon’s word was
above suspicion, and they spoke softly so as not to disturb his sleep.