He did not notice Owlet’s traveling dress, much less compute its cost, or ask himself where the cash had come from that paid for it. He was as ignorant of all such knowledge as the child was. And Owlet herself must have been surprised had she suddenly discovered how little of common sense was possessed either by herself or her protector on this subject. Childlike, she took all this for granted. Harcourt’s mind was burdened by heavier matters.
He bade good-by to Annie with emotion that she could not understand. She did not know, as he did, that this was probably, almost certainly, their final parting.
And in this he had still only the one poor consolation—that when she should read in the newspapers of the conscience-stricken criminal who had given himself up to justice she would never think of connecting him with her sometime neighbor.
After this sad leave taking Harcourt led his little protégé out of the house and to the foot of Cortlandt Street, which was not far off. They boarded the ferryboat as it was about to start.
“Do you remember ever having crossed this water before?” inquired Harcourt as the boat steamed away from the pier.
“No,” Owlet answered.
“Yet you must have crossed this water when you came to this city.”
“Must I?”
“Of course.”
“Well, then, I must have crossed it while I was dead. I went dead several times while—while I was with him.”