“As if I could!” sighed the young man.
“Why not? The case is closed and forgotten, except by you and me. The coroner’s jury decided that Nathan Yelverton committed suicide, and all the world believed in the truth of that verdict—except you and me. We know, you and I, that the notorious sharper and blackleg did not die a suicide. But no one else on earth, except you and me, know that for the fact that it is, or even suspect it as a bare possibility, and I shall never divulge the secret, or breathe a hint of it to any living creature, except under the contingency I have mentioned.”
“But why do you always speak of it to me? Why, whenever I happen to meet you anywhere, do you broach this painful subject?” inquired Harcourt in a distressed tone.
“Why? Because it is a sort of relief to talk of it to the only man that shares the secret, and—also—because, whenever I meet you, your looks trouble me. I see you suffer, and I fancy it might be some relief to you, also, to speak of this tragedy.”
“It is not. It is exceedingly distressing to me. And now, Mr. Cutts, I must entreat you to drop it, after this, my ultimatum: That as you will only speak in vindication of some innocent person, I repeat that no innocent person shall be accused or suffer for me. Now that we perfectly understand each other, pray let us say no more about the horror,” said Harcourt, turning his head away from his persecutor.
“What a child you are! And, by the way, I am not so perfectly sure that we do understand each other. I, in point of fact, I am pretty sure that we do not. But here we are at Newark, where I get off. Good-by,” said the broker, as the train slowed into the station, and he took up his bag and left his seat to get off.
Harcourt rested his elbows on the window sill, dropped his head on his hands, and sank into troubled thought as the train started again.
Owlet was anxiously watching him. She had seen that the stranger had annoyed her friend, although she had not understood the drift of the conversation; and now, seeing him so bowed down in sorrow, she blamed the stranger, and sought to console Harcourt by the only formula that occurred to her mind:
“Don’t you mind him,” she said, sniffing with exquisite childish scorn. “He’s not possessed of common sense!”
Harcourt patted her head, in recognition of her sympathy, and then relapsed into troubled reverie.