“I wish you wouldn’t think of that,” said Renshaw, with more earnestness than he would have made apparent.

“I don’t want to, either,” said Rosey, gravely, “for I’ve had a strange fancy about it.  I saw once, when I was younger, a picture in a print shop in Montgomery Street that haunted me.  I think it was called ‘The Pirate.’  There were a number of wicked-looking sailors lying around the deck, and coming out of the hatch was one figure, with his hands on the deck and a cutlass in his mouth.”

“Thank you,” said Renshaw.

“You don’t understand.  He was horrid-looking, not at all like you.  I never thought of him when I first saw you; but the other day I thought how dreadful it would have been if some one like him and not like you had come up then.  That made me nervous sometimes of being alone.  I think father is too.  He often goes about stealthily at night, as if he was watching for something.”

Renshaw’s face grew suddenly dark.  Could it be possible that Sleight had always suspected him, and set spies to watch—­or was he guilty of some double intrigue?

“He thinks,” continued Rosey, with a faint smile, “that some one is looking round the ship, and talks of setting bear-traps.  I hope you’re not mad, Mr. Renshaw,” she added, suddenly catching sight of his changed expression, “at my foolishness in saying you reminded me of the pirate.  I meant nothing.”

“I know you’re incapable of meaning anything but good to anybody, Miss Nott, perhaps to me more than I deserve,” said Renshaw, with a sudden burst of feeling.  “I wish—­I wish—­you would do me a favor. You asked me one just now.”  He had taken her hand.  It seemed so like a mere illustration of his earnestness, that she did not withdraw it.  “Your father tells you everything.  If he has any offer to dispose of the ship, will you write to me at once before anything is concluded?” He winced a little—­the sentence of Sleight, “What’s the figure you and she have settled upon?” flashed across his mind.  He scarcely noticed that Rosey had withdrawn her hand coldly.

“Perhaps you had better speak to father, as it is his business.  Besides, I shall not be here.  I shall be at the Ranch.”

“But you said you didn’t want to go?”

“I’ve changed my mind,” said Rosey, listlessly.  “I shall go to-night.”

She rose as if to indicate that the interview was ended.  With an overpowering instinct that his whole future happiness depended upon his next act, he made a step towards her, with eager outstretched hands.  But she slightly lifted her own with a warning gesture, “I hear father coming—­you will have a chance to talk business with him,” she said, and vanished into her state-room.

VI.

The heavy tread of Abner Nott echoed in the passage.  Confused and embarrassed, Renshaw remained standing at the door that had closed upon Rosey as her father entered the cabin.  Providence, which always fostered Mr. Nott’s characteristic misconceptions, left that perspicacious parent but one interpretation of the situation.  Rosey had evidently just informed Mr. Renshaw that she loved another!