He paused.
“Then,” cried Potts quickly, to whom there suddenly came an idea which brought courage with it; “then, if you saw him, what concern is it of mine? He was alive, then, and the Despard murder never took place.”
“It did take place,” said the other.
“You’re talking nonsense. How could it if you saw him? He must have been alive.”
“He was dead!” replied the stranger, whose eyes had never withdrawn themselves from those of Potts, and now seemed like two fiery orbs blazing wrathfully upon him. The tones penetrated to the very soul of the listener. He shuddered in spite of himself. Like most vulgar natures, his was accessible to superstitious horror. He heard and trembled.
“He was dead,” repeated the stranger, “and yet all that I told you is true. I learned from him his story.”
“Dead men tell no tales,” muttered Potts, in a scarce articulate voice.
“So you thought when you locked him in, and set fire to the ship, and scuttled her; but you see you were mistaken, for here at least was a dead man who did tell tales, and I was the listener.”
And the mystic solemnity of the man’s face seemed to mark him as one who might indeed have held commune with the dead.
“He told me,” continued the stranger, “where he found you, and how.”