If Mr. Renshaw required anything more to convince him of the necessity of coming to some understanding with Rosey at once it would have been this last evidence of her father’s utterly dark and supremely inscrutable designs.  He assented quickly, and Nott handed him a note.

“Ye’ll be partickler to give this inter her own hands, and wait for an answer,” said Nott gravely.

Resisting the proposition to enter then and there into an elaborate calculation of the value of his time and the expenses of the trip, Renshaw found himself at seven o’clock on the San Rafael boat.  Brief as was the journey it gave him time to reflect upon his coming interview with Rosey.  He had resolved to begin by confessing all; the attempt of last night had released him from any sense of duty to Sleight.  Besides, he did not doubt that Nott’s letter contained some reference to this affair only known to Nott’s dark and tortuous intelligence.

VIII.

Madrono Cottage lay at the entrance of a little canada already green with the early winter rains, and nestled in a thicket of the harlequin painted trees that gave it a name.  The young man was a little relieved to find that Rosey had gone to the post-office a mile away, and that he would probably overtake her or meet her returning—­alone.  The road—­little more than a trail—­wound along the crest of the hill looking across the canada to the long, dark, heavily-wooded flank of Mount Tamalpais that rose from the valley a dozen miles away.  A cessation of the warm rain, a rift in the sky, and the rare spectacle of cloud scenery, combined with a certain sense of freedom, restored that light-hearted gayety that became him most.  At a sudden turn of the road he caught sight of Rosey’s figure coming towards him, and quickened his step with the impulsiveness of a boy.  But she suddenly disappeared, and when he again saw her she was on the other side of the trail apparently picking the leaves of a manzanita.  She had already seen him.

Somehow the frankness of his greeting was checked.  She looked up at him with cheeks that retained enough of their color to suggest why she had hesitated, and said, “You here, Mr. Renshaw?  I thought you were in Sacramento.”

“And I thought you were in Petaluma,” he retorted gayly.  “I have a letter from your father.  The fact is, one of those gentlemen who has been haunting the ship actually made an entry last night.  Who he was, and what he came for, nobody knows.  Perhaps your father gives you his suspicions.”  He could not help looking at her narrowly as he handed her the note.  Except that her pretty eyebrows were slightly raised in curiosity she seemed undisturbed as she opened the letter.  Presently she raised her eyes to his.

“Is this all father gave you?”

“All.”

“You’re sure you haven’t dropped anything?”

“Nothing.  I have given you all he gave me.”