“And that is all it is.”  She exhibited the missive, a perfectly blank sheet of paper folded like a note!

Renshaw felt the angry blood glow in his cheeks.  “This is unpardonable!  I assure you, Miss Nott, there must be some mistake.  He himself has probably forgotten the inclosure,” he continued, yet with an inward conviction that the act was perfectly premeditated on the part of the old man.

The young girl held out her hand frankly.  “Don’t think any more of it, Mr. Renshaw.  Father is forgetful at times.  But tell me about last night.”

In a few words Mr. Renshaw briefly but plainly related the details of the attempt upon the Pontiac, from the moment that he had been awakened by Nott, to his discovery of the unknown trespasser’s flight by the open door to the loft.  When he had finished, he hesitated, and then taking Rosey’s hand, said impulsively, “You will not be angry with me if I tell you all?  Your father firmly believes that the attempt was made by the old Frenchman, De Ferrieres, with a view of carrying you off.”

A dozen reasons other than the one her father would have attributed it to might have called the blood to her face.  But only innocence could have brought the look of astonished indignation to her eyes as she answered quickly: 

“So that was what you were laughing at?”

“Not that, Miss Nott,” said the young man eagerly; “though I wish to God I could accuse myself of nothing more disloyal.  Do not speak, I beg,” he added impatiently, as Rosey was about to reply.  “I have no right to hear you; I have no right to even stand in your presence until I have confessed everything.  I came to the Pontiac; I made your acquaintance, Miss Nott, through a fraud as wicked as anything your father charges to De Ferrieres.  I am not a contractor.  I never was an honest lodger in the Pontiac.  I was simply a spy.”

“But you didn’t mean to be—­it was some mistake, wasn’t it?” said Rosey, quite white, but more from sympathy with the offender’s emotion than horror at the offense.

“I am afraid I did mean it.  But bear with me for a few moments longer and you shall know all.  It’s a long story.  Will you walk on, and—­take my arm?  You do not shrink from me, Miss Nott.  Thank you.  I scarcely deserve the kindness.”

Indeed so little did Rosey shrink that he was conscious of a slight reassuring pressure on his arm as they moved forward, and for the moment I fear the young man felt like exaggerating his offense for the sake of proportionate sympathy.  “Do you remember,” he continued, “one evening when I told you some sea tales, you said you always thought there must be some story about the Pontiac?  There was a story of the Pontiac, Miss Nott—­a wicked story—­a terrible story—­which I might have told you, which I ought to have told you—­which was the story that brought me there.  You were right, too, in saying that you thought I had known the Pontiac before I stepped first on her deck that day.  I had.”