“I will tell you, nor any one else, nothing. I will hold my tongue, so help me Heaven, unless——” “Unless what?” asked Harcourt. “Unless ‘in the course of human events,’ as Thomas Jefferson said, some innocent man should be charged with that very murder, as may happen, for the verdict of a coroner’s jury is not necessarily and invariably final. In such a case, to save the innocent, I would denounce the guilty.” “You know the guilty one, then?” faltered Harcourt. “I have said my last word on this subject, young man, and I am sorry for having said any word about it. It is the first time; it shall be the last, except in the exigency to which I have alluded. You, too, should turn your thoughts to other matters. Exciting subjects are not good for convalescents,” said Cutts, walking away to avoid further discussion of the subject. Harcourt felt stunned. He dropped back in his chair, scarcely able to ask himself, much less answer to himself, the question, how much did Cutts really know of that night’s tragedy; yet feeling sure of one thing—that the Baltimore broker had no disposition to denounce him. And between them the subject was never mentioned during the voyage. CHAPTER III EXPIATION The steamer reached New York harbor a few minutes after sunrise. As soon as she ran alongside of her pier Harcourt came up on deck. Charles Cutts was there, standing with two or three other passengers, waiting for the gangplank to be laid down for them to pass ashore. “Going to stay long in New York?” inquired Cutts, coming to his side. “I do not know yet,” answered Harcourt. “Come this way,” said Cutts, lowering his voice and walking some little distance from the group. Harcourt followed anxiously. “Now that we are to part,” said Cutts in a still lower tone, “I wish you to promise me one thing.” “What is it?” inquired Harcourt, seeing that Cutts paused and hesitated. “Never to mention the secret I told you yesterday morning,” said Cutts solemnly. “But you told me no secret,” replied Harcourt. “Well, then, the fact that I hinted as to knowing something more about the death of that scoundrel, Yelverton, than the coroner’s Dogberries ever suspected. I never mentioned the fact to any human being before. Heaven knows I don’t know what in the devil possessed me to speak of it to you, unless it was because you were the first and the last and the only man, except the porter, that I spoke to on that one fatal night of my visit to the Isle of Storms. Promise me, on your word of honor, that you will not speak of it to any one until I give you leave.” “I promise on my word of honor,” replied Harcourt, in amazement; for if this man had really seen the manner of the death of Yelverton by any unknown means, why should he think it necessary to bind him, Harcourt, the culprit, by a promise never to mention his knowledge?