"Well, sir, I say he is dead, because I saw him die and buried him--just so, as I was telling you." This was more than Stubbs could bear in his present humour. "Dead, is he? Mr. John's dead, is he? This man says he is dead, and he comes here saying as he is him." "Be quiet, Stubbs," said Brett. "Tell your story, my man, and be quick about it," he added. "Yes, sir," said the man, taking his hands from his pockets, and standing squarely before Brett. "That is what I came to do if these sons of guns will let me talk. John Darche was working his passage as cook, sir, and we was wrecked down Magellan way, and some was drowned, poor fellows, and some was taken off, worse luck for us. But I said I would stick to the ship if Darche would, and we should get salvage money. We had not much of a name to lose, either of us, so we tried it, but the cook was not much to boast of for a sailor man, and we could not bring her through, and she went to pieces on the Patagonian shore. The cook, that was John Darche, he caught his death, what with too much salt water, and too little to eat, and died two days after we got ashore. So I buried him. And seeing as my own name wan't of much use to me, being well known about those parts for a trifle of braining a South American devil in Buenos Ayres, I took his, which wan't no more use to him neither, and somehow or other I got here, by the help of Almighty God and an Eyetalian captain, and working my passage and eating their blooming boiled paste. And I soon found out what sort of a name I had taken from my dead mate, for he seems to have been pretty well known to these here gentlemen. But I daresay as you can swear, sir, that I ain't John Darche he as you knew, and maybe as I ain't wanted on my own account, these gentlemen will come and have a drink with me and call quits." "Have you got anything to prove this story?" Brett asked, when the man had finished. "Well, sir, there's myself to prove it," said the sailor. "I don't know that I should care for more proof. And there's my dead mate's watch, too. He had a watch, he had. He was a regular swell though he was working his passage as cook. But I had to leave it with my uncle this morning." Brett drew a long breath and clasped his hands nervously together. "I suppose you can set this man at liberty, upon my declaration that he is not John Darche, and after hearing his story," he said, turning to the police officer who stood near the sailor. "Oh yes, sir," answered the latter. "I guess that will be all right. If not, we'll make it right in five minutes." "Well then, I must ask you to go away for the present--and as quickly as possible. Take that with you, my man, and come and see me to-morrow morning. My name is Brett. The butler will write my address for you." "I don't want your money, sir," said the sailor. "Oh yes, you do," answered Brett, with a good-humoured smile. "Go and get your watch out of pawn and bring it with you."