What deep-laid plans might he not form to possess himself of Rosey, of which he, Abner Nott, would be ignorant?  Unchecked by the restraint of a father’s roof, he would now give full license to his power.  “Said he’d take his Honor with him,” muttered Abner to himself in the dim watches of the night; “lookin’ at that sayin’ in its right light, it looks bad.”

V.

The elaborately untruthful account which Mr. Nott gave his daughter of De Ferrieres’ sudden departure was more fortunate than his usual equivocations.  While it disappointed and slightly mortified her, it did not seem to her inconsistent with what she already knew of him.  “Said his doctor had ordered him to quit town under an hour, owing to a comin’ attack of hay fever, and he had a friend from furrin parts waitin’ him at the Springs, Rosey,” explained Nott, hesitating between his desire to avoid his daughter’s eyes and his wish to observe her countenance.

“Was he worse?—­I mean did he look badly, father?” inquired Rosey, thoughtfully.

“I reckon not exactly bad.  Kinder looked as if he mout be worse soon ef he didn’t hump hisself.”

“Did you see him?—­in his room?” asked Rosey anxiously.  Upon the answer to this simple question depended the future confidential relations of father and daughter.  If her father had himself detected the means by which his lodger existed, she felt that her own obligations to secrecy had been removed.  But Mr. Nott’s answer disposed of this vain hope.  It was a response after his usual fashion to the question he imagined she artfully wished to ask, i.e. if he had discovered their rendezvous of the previous night.  This it was part of his peculiar delicacy to ignore.  Yet his reply showed that he had been unconscious of the one miserable secret that he might have read easily.

“I was there an hour or so—­him and me alone—­discussin’ trade.  I reckon he’s got a good thing outer that curled horse-hair, for I see he’s got in an invoice o’ cushions.  I’ve stowed ’em all in the forrard bulkhead until he sends for ’em, ez Mr. Renshaw hez taken the loft.”

But although Mr. Renshaw had taken the loft, he did not seem in haste to occupy it.  He spent part of the morning in uneasily pacing his room, in occasional sallies into the street from which he purposelessly returned, and once or twice in distant and furtive contemplation of Rosey at work in the galley.  This last observation was not unnoticed by the astute Nott, who at once conceiving that he was nourishing a secret and hopeless passion for Rosey, began to consider whether it was not his duty to warn the young man of her preoccupied affections.  But Mr. Renshaw’s final disappearance obliged him to withhold his confidence till morning.

This time Mr. Renshaw left the ship with the evident determination of some settled purpose.  He walked rapidly until he reached the counting-house of Mr. Sleight, when he was at once shown into a private office.  In a few moments Mr. Sleight, a brusque but passionless man, joined him.