“I was afraid; I got away from him.”
“I know, Dirk Peters,” I replied, “but why do you refer to that sad story again?”
“Why, Mr. Jeorling? Have not—have you never said anything about it to anybody?”
“Not to anybody,” I protested. “How could you suppose I should be so ill-advised, so imprudent, as to divulge your secret, a secret which ought never to pass our lips—a dead secret?”
“Dead, yes, dead! And yet, understand me, it seems to me that, among the crew, something is known.”
I instantly recalled to mind what the boatswain had told me concerning a certain conversation in which he had overheard Hearne prompting Martin Holt to ask the half-breed what were the circumstances of his brother’s death on board the Grampus. Had a portion of the secret got out, or was this apprehension on the part of Dirk Peters purely imaginary?
“Explain yourself,” I said.
“Understand me, Mr. Jeorling, I am a bad hand at explaining. Yes, yesterday—I have thought of nothing else since—Martin Holt took me aside, far from the others, and told me that he wished to speak to me—”