A day or two before the Belle Helen sailed from Kingston, upon her return voyage to New York, Mr. Greenfield stopped Barnaby True as he was passing through the office, and begged him to come to dinner that night. (For within the tropics, you are to know, they breakfast at eleven o’clock and take dinner in the cool of the evening, because of the heat, and not at mid-day, as we do in more temperate latitudes).  “I would,” says Mr. Greenfield, “have you meet Sir John Malyoe and Miss Marjorie, who are to be your chief passengers for New York, and for whom the state cabin and the two state-rooms are to be fitted as here ordered”—­showing a letter—­“for Sir John hath arranged,” says Mr. Greenfield, “for the Captain’s own state-room.”

Then, not being aware of Barnaby True’s history, nor that Captain Brand was his grandfather, the good gentleman—­calling Sir John “Jack” Malyoe—­goes on to tell our hero what a famous pirate he had been, and how it was he who had shot Captain Brand over t’other side of the harbor twenty years before.  “Yes,” says he, “’tis the same Jack Malyoe, though grown into repute and importance now, as who would not who hath had the good-fortune to fall heir to a baronetcy and a landed estate?”

And so it befell that same night that Barnaby True once again beheld the man who had murdered his own grandfather, meeting him this time face to face.

That time in the harbor he had seen Sir John Malyoe at a distance and in the darkness; now that he beheld him closer, it seemed to him that he had never seen a countenance more distasteful to him in all his life.  Not that the man was altogether ugly, for he had a good enough nose and a fine double chin; but his eyes stood out from his face and were red and watery, and he winked them continually, as though they were always a-smarting.  His lips were thick and purple-red, and his cheeks mottled here and there with little clots of veins.

When he spoke, his voice rattled in his throat to such a degree that it made one wish to clear one’s own throat to listen to him.  So, what with a pair of fat, white hands, and that hoarse voice, and his swollen face, and his thick lips a-sticking out, it appeared to Barnaby True he had never beheld a countenance that pleased him so little.

But if Sir John Malyoe suited our hero’s taste so ill, the granddaughter was in the same degree pleasing to him.  She had a thin, fair skin, red lips, and yellow hair—­though it was then powdered pretty white for the occasion—­and the bluest eyes that ever he beheld in all of his life.  A sweet, timid creature, who appeared not to dare so much as to speak a word for herself without looking to that great beast, her grandfather, for leave to do so, for she would shrink and shudder whenever he would speak of a sudden to her or direct a glance upon her.  When she did pluck up sufficient courage to say anything, it was in so low a voice that Barnaby was obliged to bend his head to hear her; and when she smiled she would as like as not catch herself short and look up as though to see if she did amiss to be cheerful.