"There is trouble," he said quickly to Marion, holding out his hands as though he wished to protect her, and touching her gently. "Please go away. Leave me here." "Trouble?" She was not inclined to yield. "Yes. It must be he--if you have to see him, this is not the place." "But--" With his hands, very tenderly, he pushed her toward the door at the other end of the room, the same through which John Darche had once escaped. She resisted for a moment--then without a word she obeyed his word and touch and went out, covering her eyes with her hand. "Now then, what is it?" asked Brett, turning sharply around as he closed the door. "I could not help it, sir!" Stubbs repeated. "There is a man in the hall as says he is Mr. John--leastwise he says his name is John Darche, though he has got a beard, sir, which Mr. John never had, as you may remember, sir, and there is a lot of policemen in plain clothes and otherwise, and Mr. Brown says they are pressmen, and the driver of the cab, and Michael Curly, and the expressman--" "What do all these people want?" inquired Brett, sternly. "Turn them out." "It is a fact, sir, just as I tell you--and so help me the powers, sir, here they are coming in and I cannot keep them out--I cannot, not if I was a dozen Stubbses!" Before he had finished speaking, a number of men had pushed past him into the room, led by Mr. Brown, very much out of breath and trying his best to control the storm he had raised. "What is this disturbance, Brown?" asked Brett angrily. "Who are these people?" "It is the man, Brett!" cried Mr. Brown triumphantly, and pushing forward a burly and bearded individual in a shabby "guernsey" with a black rag tied in a knot round his neck. "Now just look at him, and tell me whether he has the slightest resemblance to John Darche." "He is no more John Darche than I am! Take him away!" "Out with you!" cried Stubbs, only too anxious to enforce the order. "He said he was John Darche," said one of the men from Mulberry Street. The man refused to be turned out by Stubbs and stood his ground, evidently anxious to clear himself. He was an honest-looking fellow enough, and there was a twinkle in his bright blue eyes as though he were by no means scared, but rather enjoyed the hubbub his presence created. "No, sir," he said in a healthy voice that dominated the rest. "I am no more John Darche than you are, sir, unless that happens to be your name, which I ask your pardon if it is. But I said I was, and so the bobbies brought me along. But this gentleman here, he showed me the papers, that there was trouble about John Darche, so I just let them bring me, which I had no call to do, barring I liked, being a sailor man and quick on my feet." "Well then, who are you?" asked Brett. "And where is John Darche?" "John Darche is dead, sir, and I buried him on the Patagonian shore." "Dead?" cried Brett. The colour rushed to his face, and for a moment the room swam with him. "Can you prove that, my man?"