He knew nothing of these comments, but sat there, gloomy and abstracted, until he was aroused by a voice near him. “How do you do, sir?” it said. He looked up, dazed by the sudden and familiar address from a stranger. “You don’t seem to recognize me.” Harcourt gazed for a moment longer without speaking. “Charles Cutts, don’t you know, who landed from a passing yacht at the Isle of Storms late one night in September last—a night memorable for the tragedy enacted there, you know,” said the stranger. “I—remember—you—now,” Harcourt faltered, changing color from pallor to green ghastliness. “Ah! I see that the very sight of me, calling up the memory of that night, has quite upset you, and I don’t wonder,” said Cutts, taking a seat beside the agitated young man. “I—I—have not been well lately—I—I have but recently recovered from a very severe fit of illness,” faltered Harcourt, in explanation. “Been ill? Indeed, you look as if you had been, poor fellow! I am sorry for you. I ought not to have mentioned that dreadful occurrence that drove even me away from the house,” said Cutts sympathetically. And yet he went on speaking of it. “I fled away from the scene of the so-called suicide the next morning.” “The so-called suicide,” muttered Harcourt involuntarily. “Yes; that was what they called it, you know.” “The—the—coroner’s jury—after—after investigation—found it so,” said Harcourt hoarsely. “Oh, yes. Sharp fellows, that coroner’s jury. I need not have run away from them, as I did by the very boat that went to fetch the coroner.” “Did you—run away—from them?” “Yes; for fear of being summoned as a witness. I did not want to, in the case of that scoundrel Yelverton. I knew the fellow in Baltimore. The world is well rid of him. I think so now, and thought so then. That was the reason why I hurried off in the early boat that went to fetch the coroner from Snowden, to avoid being summoned to give evidence.” “But—but—your room was—at the opposite side—of the hotel. You could have known nothing—of—of the manner of—Yelverton’s death,” said Harcourt, speaking as with the difficulty and hesitancy of an expiring man. “I know it was not a suicide,” said Cutts positively. “Oh, my Lord!” exclaimed Harcourt, starting to his feet and gazing into the stolid face of the speaker, who had also risen. “I don’t wonder it upsets you. It did me, I know.” “But it was proved beyond all doubt that Yelverton died by his own hand,” said the young man, trying to rally his forces. “Bosh! Proved to the satisfaction of the Snowden Dogberries who sat on the coroner’s jury! But there, young man, I have already said more than I ever intended to say to any mortal on that subject; only, you know, the sudden sight of you here on the boat recalled the whole thing to my mind.” “But, pray tell me what reason you have for supposing——” began Harcourt, but his tormentor cut him short.