“But you told me no secret,” replied Harcourt.
“Well, then, the fact that I hinted as to knowing something more about the death of that scoundrel, Yelverton, than the coroner’s Dogberries ever suspected. I never mentioned the fact to any human being before. Heaven knows I don’t know what in the devil possessed me to speak of it to you, unless it was because you were the first and the last and the only man, except the porter, that I spoke to on that one fatal night of my visit to the Isle of Storms. Promise me, on your word of honor, that you will not speak of it to any one until I give you leave.”
“I promise on my word of honor,” replied Harcourt, in amazement; for if this man had really seen the manner of the death of Yelverton by any unknown means, why should he think it necessary to bind him, Harcourt, the culprit, by a promise never to mention his knowledge?
“We may, or may not, ever meet again. In the meantime, I rely on your honor to keep your promise,” said Cutts.
“You may do so,” replied the young man, still dazed.
“Well, good-by.”
The gangplank was down, and the passengers were going off the boat.
“Good-by,” returned Harcourt, and followed the stream to the pier to begin his new life.
First he went to a barber’s shop and had his handsome dark mustache shaved off, and his rather long, silken dark hair cut short.
Then he went to a tailor’s and procured a rough suit of clothes, which, after trying on, he kept on, and had his traveling suit put up in a parcel, which he took under his arm.