“Do not be afraid, Mr. Cutts. No innocent man shall ever suffer for me, whether you ever open your lips on the subject or not,” said poor Harcourt in a husky whisper, speaking now in recognition of the secret understanding between them. But the broker stared at him blankly for a moment, and then said: “I am not so sure of that. Look here, young man, what do you mean? You brood too much on this matter. How do I know what it will lead to? How do I know but what you will become insane, and go and accuse some poor devil or other, whom I shall have to vindicate by pointing out the real murderer? Take my advice, and don’t brood, young fellow. It can do no good. ‘What’s done is done,’ as Lady Macbeth, that strong-minded woman, wisely remarked to her very particularly feeble-minded lord and master. All the brooding in the present and future cannot alter the past. Say to yourself that you could not help what happened; and you really could not, you poor boy! Say to yourself it was kismet—and it was kismet, William Harcourt. Say that to yourself, and then dismiss the matter at once and forever from your mind.” “As if I could!” sighed the young man. “Why not? The case is closed and forgotten, except by you and me. The coroner’s jury decided that Nathan Yelverton committed suicide, and all the world believed in the truth of that verdict—except you and me. We know, you and I, that the notorious sharper and blackleg did not die a suicide. But no one else on earth, except you and me, know that for the fact that it is, or even suspect it as a bare possibility, and I shall never divulge the secret, or breathe a hint of it to any living creature, except under the contingency I have mentioned.” “But why do you always speak of it to me? Why, whenever I happen to meet you anywhere, do you broach this painful subject?” inquired Harcourt in a distressed tone. “Why? Because it is a sort of relief to talk of it to the only man that shares the secret, and—also—because, whenever I meet you, your looks trouble me. I see you suffer, and I fancy it might be some relief to you, also, to speak of this tragedy.” “It is not. It is exceedingly distressing to me. And now, Mr. Cutts, I must entreat you to drop it, after this, my ultimatum: That as you will only speak in vindication of some innocent person, I repeat that no innocent person shall be accused or suffer for me. Now that we perfectly understand each other, pray let us say no more about the horror,” said Harcourt, turning his head away from his persecutor. “What a child you are! And, by the way, I am not so perfectly sure that we do understand each other. I, in point of fact, I am pretty sure that we do not. But here we are at Newark, where I get off. Good-by,” said the broker, as the train slowed into the station, and he took up his bag and left his seat to get off. Harcourt rested his elbows on the window sill, dropped his head on his hands, and sank into troubled thought as the train started again.