"I must, I cannot help it. I feel as if something were driving me to speak. You did not hear the whole story. They said the man was picked up in mid-channel by an Italian ship more than _seven months_ ago." "Seven months ago!" "Even the time would fit the truth. But then--stop. Was he a swimmer? Yes--of course--I remember him at Newport." Brett answered his own question. "The ship--a bark they called it--was outward bound, and could not put in again. She was on her way to Valparaiso. You know where that is, all the way round by the Straits of Magellan. Something happened to her, she got wrecked or something--they say that a lot of the crew were killed and eaten up by the cannibals in Terra del Fuego. John Drake--" "John Drake!" Marion exclaimed. "Yes, another coincidence. John Drake--horribly like is it not?--managed to escape with the second mate, the carpenter, and the cabin boy, got across to the Patagonian country--there are lots of details. They wandered about for ever so long, and at last turned up somewhere. They were all Italians, and Drake, who had no papers, was shipped off again by the Consul on board of another Italian ship. That accounts for six months, with the bad weather they had. Then there is a long blank. And now this John Drake turns up here--" "Yes--but--after all, if he changed his name, he would change it altogether." She stopped and looked at him, for the argument seemed conclusive. "That is not the only point that is not clear," Brett answered. "But the names are so dreadfully alike." "But there is a very great difference!" Marion exclaimed. "There are a great many Drakes--but Darche is a very uncommon name." "That is the reason why he changed it so little." "Oh, why do you suggest such a possibility--of what use is it? Why?" She rose suddenly and began to move about the room. "Because I am a fool, I suppose," Brett answered, not moving from his seat. "But I cannot help it. The idea has taken hold of me and I cannot get rid of it. I feel as though that man had risen from the dead to wreck your life." "It would be a wreck indeed!" said Marion in a low voice that had a sort of horror in it. "You could not save me this time--not even you." "And yet--" "What?" "No--I ought not to say it." "Mysteries again?" Marion stopped beside him and looked down into his face. "The same, if you choose to call it a mystery." "I wish you would speak out, my dear friend," said Marion gravely. "I feel all the time that there is something in your mind which you wish to say to me, but which you will not, or cannot, or dare not say. Am I right?" "To some extent." "I do not think you understand what friendship really means." "Friendship?" Brett exclaimed. "For you? No, perhaps I do not. I wish I did. I would give a great deal if I could."