"He thinks you too hot. It needs discretion and an old head," said I.

"Egad, then, I'll commend you to him," said Nick.

"Now," I said, "it's time for you to tell me something of yourself, and
how you chanced to come into this country."

"'Twas Darnley's fault," said Nick.

"Darnley!" I exclaimed; "he whom you got into the duel with--" I stopped
abruptly, with a sharp twinge of remembrance that was like a pain in my
side. 'Twas Nick took up the name.

"With Harry Riddle." He spoke quietly, that was the terrifying part of
it. "David, I've looked for that man in Italy and France, I've scoured
London for him, and, by God, I'll find him before he dies. And when I do
find him I swear to you that there will be no such thing as time wasted,
or mercy."

I shuddered. In all my life I had never known such a moment of
indecision. Should I tell him? My conscience would give me no definite
reply. The question had haunted me all the night, and I had lost my way
in consequence, nor had the morning's ride from the Widow Brown's
sufficed to bring me to a decision. Of what use to tell him? Would
Riddle's death mend matters? The woman loved him, that had been clear to
me; yet, by telling Nick what I knew I might induce him to desist from
his search, and if I did not tell, Nick might some day run across the
trail, follow it up, take Riddle's life, and lose his own. The moment,
made for confession as it was, passed.