"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—"
"Of the Grampus?"
"Of the Grampus—yes, and of his brother, Ned Holt. For the first time he uttered that name before me—and yet we have sailed together for nearly three months."
The half-breed's voice was so changed that I could hardly hear him.
"It seemed to me," he resumed, "that in Martin Holt's mind—no, I was not mistaken—there was something like a suspicion."
