“Mr. Jeorling,” he said, “you remember, in your cabin in the Halbrane, I told you the—the affair of the Grampus?”
I remembered well.
“I told you that Parker’s name was not Parker, that it was Holt, and that he was Ned Holt’s brother?”
“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 ove
