“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.”
CHAPTER XI.
VANBRUGH AND MR. Brown lost no time, for the former knew exactly what to do. Within three-quarters of an hour they had been to headquarters in Mulberry Street, had ascertained that there was ground for the report that John Darche had returned, that the police were making haste to secure him and that he had paused the night without much attempt at concealment, in a sailors’ lodging-house on the east side. They found the place without difficulty, and were informed that the man Darche had gone out in the morning, leaving his few effects in charge of the lodging-house keeper. The house was watched by detectives. Vanbrugh asked Brown to stay at the Mulberry Street Station until dinner-time and then to bring him news at Mrs. Darche’s in Lexington Avenue, whither he at once returned, fearing some trouble and anxious to give timely warning.
He knew enough of criminals to suspect that Darche, finding himself in New York very much against his will and doubtless without money, would in all likelihood attempt to obtain money from his wife to aid him in making his escape. He would probably not waste time in writing, but would appear in person at the house, just before dinner when he would know that Marion must be at home, and he would have little or no difficulty in forcing his way into her presence.
This was what he foresaw in case the man proved to be really John Darche. The police were satisfied that there was no mistake, and that a fortunate accident had thrown the escaped criminal into their hands. Nevertheless, Vanbrugh had doubts on the subject. The coincidence of name was possible, if not probable, and no one had given him any description which would have applied any more to John Darche than to any other man of his age and approximately of his complexion. The lodging-house keeper was evidently under the impression that the man, whoever he was, must be a sailor; but any one familiar with sea-faring men knows that, apart from some peculiarity of dress there is often very little to distinguish them from landsmen, beyond the fact that no seaman ever wears spectacles, and that most sa
ilors have bronzed faces. But a landsman is easily imposed upon by a “guernsey,” a jack-knife, a plug of tobacco, and a peculiar taste in swearing.
When Brett had left Marion Darche so abruptly, she had gone to her morning-room and shut herself up to think, with no especial result, except that she was very unhappy in the process. She would not even see Dolly Maylands, who came in soon afterwards, but sent her word to have tea in the library with Cousin Annie. She herself, she said, would come down later. She begged Dolly to stay to dinner, just as she was.
Dolly was busy as usual, but she was anxious about her friend and about Brett, and her own life seemed very perplexing. Men were very odd creatures, she thought. Why did Brett hesitate to ask Marion to marry him, since he was in love with her, unless he were sure that Marion loved Vanbrugh, or at least liked him better? And if Vanbrugh were not himself in love with Marion, an idea which Dolly scouted with wrath, why did he not offer himself to her, Dolly Maylands? Considering that the world was a spheroid, thought Dolly, it was a very crooked stick of a world, after all.
“All alone, Dolly?” asked Mrs. Willoughby, entering the library.
“Yes,” answered Dolly. “I am all alone, and I am tired, and I want some tea, and Marion is lying down, and everything is perfectly horrid. Do sit down and let us have a cosy talk, all by ourselves.”
“Why will people scramble through life at such a rate?” And Mrs. Willoughby installed her gray self in an easy-chair. “I have told Marion fifty times since last summer that she will break down unless she gives herself a rest.”
“My dear Mrs. Willoughby,” said Dolly. “Marion is a very sensible woman and manages her existence on scientific principles. She really gets much more rest than you or I, not to mention the fact — well, I suppose I ought not to say it.”
“What? Why not?”
“Well, I was thinking that since poor Mr. Darche was drowned, life must have seemed like one long rest to Marion.”
“Oh Dolly, how unkind!” exclaimed Mrs. Willoughby, and then paused a moment before she continued. “But I suppose there is some truth in it. What is that proverb? ‘De — de — mort—’”
“‘De mortuis nil nisi — something like bones,’” answered Dolly with a laugh.
“What? What is that?”
“Oh nothing. It only means that everybody should say the nicest possible things when people are dead. That was what you meant. But I should think the living would appreciate them more.”
“Yes, yes,” assented Mrs. Willoughby vaguely. “I daresay he would.”
“He? Who is he?” asked Dolly with affected surprise.
“Oh I do not mean anything, my dear. I hardly think that Marion will marry again.”
“I suppose they are admirably suited to each other?”
“Who?”
“Who? Why Marion and Mr. Vanbrugh. Who else?” Dolly watched Mrs. Willoughby’s face.
“Oh, I was not thinking of that. I meant Mr. — hm—” She interrupted herself in fear of indiscretion. “Your dress will be complete now with the lace, will it not, Dolly?”
“Oh yes,” answered Dolly in a careless tone. “It was just like Mr. Vanbrugh, was it not, to take all that trouble to find the very thing I wanted?”
“A man will take a great deal of trouble, my dear, when he wants to please somebody he is fond of.”
“Yes — but me,” suggested Dolly, just to see what Cousin Annie thought.
“Why not you? Should you like some tea, Dolly?”
“Why not me? I suppose because I am Marion’s friend,” Dolly answered.
“Oh yes, if you put it in that way—”
Mrs. Willoughby was interrupted by the appearance of Stubbs bringing in the tea.
“Is Mrs. Darche at home if any one calls, Stubbs?” she inquired.
“No, madam. Mrs. Darche is upstairs and not at home.” He paused a moment to see whether Mrs. Willoughby meant to say anything more, and then left the room.
“Dear Mrs. Willoughby, I do so want to ask you a question,” said Dolly, beginning to pour the tea.
“What is it, my dear?”
“One lump or two?” inquired Dolly with hesitation.
“Is that all?” asked Mrs. Willoughby with a slight laugh.
“Not quite,” answered Dolly. “Do you take milk?”
“Please, and one lump. What is the question, child?”
“No,” said Dolly, laughing herself. “It was foolish and inquisitive, and all sorts of horrid things. I think I had better not ask it.”
“About Marion and Mr. Brett?”
“Why?” Dolly asked, looking up quickly, and then hesitating. “Is there anything? I mean — yes, that is what I meant to ask.”
“Well, my dear,” answered Mrs. Willoughby in a confidential tone, “to tell the truth I am glad to talk to somebody about it, for it is on my mind, and you know that Marion does not like to answer questions.”
“Yes, I know. Well, so you think there is something between them?”
“My dear, of course there is,” said Mrs. Willoughby without hesitation. “And I am quite sure that something has happened lately. In fact, I believe they are engaged to be married.”
“Do you really? And — and — where does Mr. Vanbrugh come in?”
“Mr. Vanbrugh? I am sure I do not know. Perhaps he will be Harry Brett’s best man.”
“If they could see themselves as others see them,” reflected Dolly under her breath, before she answered the remark. “They would make a handsome couple, would they not? But you are quite mistaken, dear Mrs. Willoughby — oh, you are quite — quite mistaken.” She looked down and sipped her tea.
“How do you know that?” asked Mrs. Willoughby. “How can you be so sure? Do you not see how they go on together, always sitting in corners and talking in undertones?”
“Do you not see how Marion spoils Mr. Vanbrugh, and gets his special brand of cigarettes for him, and always asks him to dinner to fill up a place, and altogether behaves like an idiot about him? You must be blind if you do not see that. Let me give you another cup of tea?”
“Thanks, I have not finished,” said Cousin Annie. “Of course, my dear child, no two people ever look at things from the same point of view, but I was thinking—”
Stubbs opened the door again.
“Mr. Vanbrugh,” he announced.
“He knew you were here, my dear,” said Mrs. Willoughby in a whisper. “He has come to see you.”
“Will you be good-natured and forgive my spoiling your tea?” asked Vanbrugh, as he entered the room.
“We will try,” said Dolly.
“Sit down,” said Mrs. Willoughby, “and have some with us.”
“Thanks,” answered Vanbrugh. “I am even ruder than I seem, for I am in a hurry. Do you think I could see Mrs. Darche? For a minute?”
“I daresay,” replied Cousin Annie, doubtfully.
“Of course you can. She is upstairs and not at home.” Dolly laughed.
“So Stubbs told me,” said Vanbrugh, “and I came in to ask you to help me. I am very glad I have seen you first. I know it is late and I will not keep you a moment. There is something that I must say. I have just been at the club for a moment and Brown came in and four or five others. There is certainly an impression that John Darche has really come back again.”
“Good heavens!” cried Mrs. Willoughby, thoroughly startled.
“Oh, how awful!” exclaimed Dolly in real distress. “But you were all saying after luncheon that it was impossible.”
“I know,” said Vanbrugh. “I know we were. But it looks otherwise now. There was so much talk about it that I proposed to Brown to try and find the man. We have been down town since then, to Mulberry Street. There certainly is a man knocking about under the name of John Darche, who landed from an Italian vessel last night.”
“Have you seen him?” asked Dolly. “Oh, poor Marion!”
“Dreadful, dreadful!” repeated Mrs. Willoughby, staring at Vanbrugh.
“No,” answered the latter in reply to Dolly’s question, “we have not seen him, but we shall have him this evening.”
“Here?” exclaimed Mrs. Willoughby, looking round nervously.
“Here in this house?”
“Yes — or at least, under our hand,” said Vanbrugh. “Brown is waiting for information at the Mulberry Street Station.”
“To bring him here to-night?” asked Cousin Annie, with increasing anxiety.
“No, to keep him from coming.”
“And you have come to warn Marion?” inquired Dolly.
“Yes, in a way,” answered Vanbrugh. “But not to tell her, of course. I want her to give strict orders about any odd-looking persons who may present themselves. I mean to tell her that I am afraid some reporter may try to get in, and that the man at the door must be very careful.”
“I will go to her,” said Mrs. Willoughby, rising. “Mr. Vanbrugh — if he comes, if it is really he, he cannot be turned away from what was his own house.”
“No, but he shall be stopped at the door, and I will go out and talk to him and persuade him to escape, or to come and see me in the morning, if he is mad enough to stay.”
“Yes, that is sensible,” answered Cousin Annie. “Shall I speak to my niece myself, or shall I make her come down?”
Vanbrugh hesitated a moment and looked at Dolly, who answered by an almost imperceptible nod.
“I think,” said Vanbrugh, “that to put her to any inconvenience would make the matter look more serious than we wish her to think it is. Do you think you could explain, Mrs. Willoughby? Give her the idea that the newspaper man who was here to-day may come back — or some other person, or two or three. Anything of that sort.”
“I will do my best,” answered Mrs. Willoughby. “You will wait until I come back, will you not?”
“Of course,” replied Vanbrugh, as she left the room.
“Do you think it is really true?” asked Dolly.
“I do not know what to think. Putting all the facts we have together, there is certainly a possibility.”
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 652