“Yes; that was what they called it, you know.”
“The—the—coroner’s jury—after—after investigation—found it so,” said Harcourt hoarsely.
“Oh, yes. Sharp fellows, that coroner’s jury. I need not have run away from them, as I did by the very boat that went to fetch the coroner.”
“Did you—run away—from them?”
“Yes; for fear of being summoned as a witness. I did not want to, in the case of that scoundrel Yelverton. I knew the fellow in Baltimore. The world is well rid of him. I think so now, and thought so then. That was the reason why I hurried off in the early boat that went to fetch the coroner from Snowden, to avoid being summoned to give evidence.”
“But—but—your room was—at the opposite side—of the hotel. You could have known nothing—of—of the manner of—Yelverton’s death,” said Harcourt, speaking as with the difficulty and hesitancy of an expiring man.
“I know it was not a suicide,” said Cutts positively.
“Oh, my Lord!” exclaimed Harcourt, starting to his feet and gazing into the stolid face of the speaker, who had also risen.
“I don’t wonder it upsets you. It did me, I know.”
“But it was proved beyond all doubt that Yelverton died by his own hand,” said the young man, trying to rally his forces.