He turned his head, and was face to face with Charles Cutts, the Baltimore broker, who was so fatally mixed up with the tragic drama of his life.
“How do you do? How do you do?” exclaimed the broker pleasantly, offering his fat hand. “Every time I see you, do you know, I am reminded of that night of Yelverton’s death on the Isle of Storms.”
“I need never to be reminded of it,” said poor Harcourt with a profound sigh.
He was not so cautious and reticent now as he had been in his previous encounter with Cutts. The time of his confession was drawing too near to make it necessary that he should be so. If Cutts—who certainly knew more of the manner of Yelverton’s death than any other man, except Harcourt himself—should feel inclined to denounce him, why, let Cutts do it—if he would only wait a few days or hours, until Dorothy Harcourt should be at rest.
“Ah! you don’t require to be reminded of it, don’t you? Brooding over it all the time, eh? That’s morbid. Take my advice, don’t you do it. It is hurting your health. You are looking very badly, my young friend. Don’t brood over what can’t be altered now,” said Cutts, patting him on the shoulder.
“I cannot help it. Since you know so much, you must also——” Harcourt replied.
“Yes, I do know so much!—much more than you dream of, my young friend—much more than I shall ever breathe to mortal ears, except your own, unless, indeed, it should be necessary to do so to vindicate some innocent accused person,” said Cutts, dropping his voice to a low murmur, which precaution seemed unnecessary, since there was no one near enough to hear their conversation except the child, who did not understand what they were talking about.
“Do not be afraid, Mr. Cutts. No innocent man shall ever suffer for me, whether you ever open your lips on the subject or not,” said poor Harcourt in a husky whisper, speaking now in recognition of the secret understanding between them.
But the broker stared at him blankly for a moment, and then said:
“I am not so sure of that. Look here, young man, what do you mean? You brood too much on this matter. How do I know what it will lead to? How do I know but what you will become insane, and go and accuse some poor devil or other, whom I shall have to vindicate by pointing out the real murderer? Take my advice, and don’t brood, young fellow. It can do no good. ‘What’s done is done,’ as Lady Macbeth, that strong-minded woman, wisely remarked to her very particularly feeble-minded lord and master. All the brooding in the present and future cannot alter the past. Say to yourself that you could not help what happened; and you really could not, you poor boy! Say to yourself it was kismet—and it was kismet, William Harcourt. Say that to yourself, and then dismiss the matter at once and forever from your mind.”