When the boat reached Jersey City, Harcourt, leading the child with one hand and his valise in the other, hurried on with the throng to the depot. When he reached the ticket office and took out and opened Adler’s sealed envelope, he found, not the sixteen dollars and fifty cents he had asked for, but thirty dollars, in three notes of ten each. “More than half of his six months’ savings,” he said to himself. “Ah, me! the more I see of Adler the worse I think of myself. But his money must not be used—no, indeed, it must not. I must return it as soon as I get to Washington, and trust to Providence for future supplies.” He took tickets for himself and the child and hurried to the train. In two more minutes they were seated side by side in the common car, Harcourt next the window, lest Owlet should endanger her safety by putting her head out of it. CHAPTER XXV CHARLES CUTTS AGAIN The car was not more than half full, but just as it started Harcourt heard a man come into the seat behind them, drop down in his place, and deposit a heavy bag beside him; and next he felt a hand laid familiarly on his shoulder. He turned his head, and was face to face with Charles Cutts, the Baltimore broker, who was so fatally mixed up with the tragic drama of his life. “How do you do? How do you do?” exclaimed the broker pleasantly, offering his fat hand. “Every time I see you, do you know, I am reminded of that night of Yelverton’s death on the Isle of Storms.” “I need never to be reminded of it,” said poor Harcourt with a profound sigh. He was not so cautious and reticent now as he had been in his previous encounter with Cutts. The time of his confession was drawing too near to make it necessary that he should be so. If Cutts—who certainly knew more of the manner of Yelverton’s death than any other man, except Harcourt himself—should feel inclined to denounce him, why, let Cutts do it—if he would only wait a few days or hours, until Dorothy Harcourt should be at rest. “Ah! you don’t require to be reminded of it, don’t you? Brooding over it all the time, eh? That’s morbid. Take my advice, don’t you do it. It is hurting your health. You are looking very badly, my young friend. Don’t brood over what can’t be altered now,” said Cutts, patting him on the shoulder. “I cannot help it. Since you know so much, you must also——” Harcourt replied. “Yes, I do know so much!—much more than you dream of, my young friend—much more than I shall ever breathe to mortal ears, except your own, unless, indeed, it should be necessary to do so to vindicate some innocent accused person,” said Cutts, dropping his voice to a low murmur, which precaution seemed unnecessary, since there was no one near enough to hear their conversation except the child, who did not understand what they were talking about.