"Then would you mind helping me to get hold of him? Where is the man to be heard of?" "That is another matter, Mr. Brett. I shall be happy to see that the report is denied. But whether the man is an impostor or not, it will be hard to find him. That will not matter. We will explain everything to-morrow morning, and it will all be forgotten by the next day. You say you are quite sure, Mr. Brett, that Mr. Darche was not picked up when he fell overboard?" "Sure!" answered Brett, authoritatively. "I see," said Wood. "Thank you. I understand that it was in winter, in rough weather, and that the efforts made to save him were in vain." "On the contrary, it was a calm, warm night in May. It is certainly strange that they should not have been able to save him. That ought to prove beyond question that he sank at once." "There is no doubt about that, I should think," replied the reporter without much conviction. "I won't detain you any longer, Mr. Brett. The report shall be denied at once. Will you allow me to use your name as authority for these details?" "Everybody knows the story." "Pardon me. Our paper has a very large circulation in the West, and a well-known name like yours lends great weight to any statement." "I did not know that my name was so particularly well known," observed Brett. "Why, certainly, Mr. Brett. Your yacht won a race last year. I remember it very well." "That might be a claim to distinction, but I never had a yacht." "Not fond of the sea, Mr. Brett?" "Oh, yes, I like it well enough," said Brett, rising, as though he wished it understood that the interview was at an end. "You will distinctly deny this report, will you not?" "You can rely upon me to say just what you have said to me, Mr. Brett." "Very well. Thank you. Then you will be good enough to say that there is not a word of truth in it, and warn people against the man who calls himself Darche?" "Certainly, certainly. Thank you, Mr. Brett. Good morning, Mr. Brett." "Good morning." Brett followed the reporter with his eyes till the door closed behind him. He felt as though he had distinctly got the worst of it in the encounter, and yet he could not see how he could have said less. And that was how stories got about, he thought. If he had not seen the reporter,--if the latter had been turned away as Mrs. Darche had intended, the story of Darche's return would have been reported again and again. That, at least, thought Brett, was prevented for the present. Nevertheless, as he stood alone during those few moments before sending word to Marion that the reporter was gone, Brett's face betrayed his terrible anxiety. He hesitated. More than once his hand went out towards the bell and dropped again by his side. At last he made up his mind, touched the button, and sent Stubbs with his message to Mrs. Darche. "Well?" she asked as she entered the room.