“You don’t seem to recognize me.”
Harcourt gazed for a moment longer without speaking.
“Charles Cutts, don’t you know, who landed from a passing yacht at the Isle of Storms late one night in September last—a night memorable for the tragedy enacted there, you know,” said the stranger.
“I—remember—you—now,” Harcourt faltered, changing color from pallor to green ghastliness.
“Ah! I see that the very sight of me, calling up the memory of that night, has quite upset you, and I don’t wonder,” said Cutts, taking a seat beside the agitated young man.
“I—I—have not been well lately—I—I have but recently recovered from a very severe fit of illness,” faltered Harcourt, in explanation.
“Been ill? Indeed, you look as if you had been, poor fellow! I am sorry for you. I ought not to have mentioned that dreadful occurrence that drove even me away from the house,” said Cutts sympathetically.
And yet he went on speaking of it.
“I fled away from the scene of the so-called suicide the next morning.”
“The so-called suicide,” muttered Harcourt involuntarily.