“Ef you’re thinkin’ o’ skippin’ afore I’ve done with yer,” said Nott with labored gentleness, “I oughter warn ye that it’s my style to drop Injins at two hundred yards, and this deck ain’t anywhere more ’n fifty.  It’s an uncomfortable style, a nasty style—­but it’s my style.  I thought I’d tell yer, so yer could take it easy where you air.  Where’s Ferrers?”

Even in the man’s insane terror, his utter bewilderment at the question was evident.  “Ferrers?” he gasped; “don’t know him, I swear to God, boss.”

“P’r’aps,” said Nott, with infinite cunning, “yer don’t know the man ez kem into the loft from the alley last night—­p’r’aps yer didn’t see an airy Frenchman with a dyed mustache, eh?  I thought that would fetch ye!” he continued, as the man started at the evidence that his vision of last night was a living man.  “P’r’aps you and him didn’t break into this ship last night, jist to run off with my darter Rosey?  P’r’aps yer don’t know Rosey, eh?  P’r’aps yer don’t know ez Ferrers wants to marry her, and hez been hangin’ round yer ever since he left—­eh?”

Scarcely believing the evidence of his senses that the old man whose treasure he had been trying to steal was utterly ignorant of his real offense, and yet uncertain of the penalty of the other crime of which he was accused, the Lascar writhed his body and stammered vaguely, “Mercy!  Mercy!”

“Well,” said Nott, cautiously, “ez I reckon the hide of a dead Chinee nigger ain’t any more vallyble than that of a dead Injin, I don’t care ef I let up on yer—­seein’ the cussedness ain’t yours.  But ef I let yer off this once, you must take a message to Ferrers from me.”

“Let me off this time, boss, and I swear to God I will,” said the Lascar eagerly.

“Ye kin say to Ferrers—­let me see”—­deliberated Nott, leaning on his rifle with cautious reflection.  “Ye kin say to Ferrers like this—­sez you, ‘Ferrers,’ sez you, ’the old man sez that afore you went away you sez to him, sez you, “I take my honor with me,” sez you’—­have you got that?” interrupted Nott suddenly.

“Yes, boss.”

“‘I take my honor with me,’ sez you,” repeated Nott slowly. “‘Now,’ sez you—­’the old man sez, sez he—­tell Ferrers, sez he, that his honor havin’ run away agin, he sends it back to him, and ef he ever ketches it around after this, he’ll shoot it on sight.’  Hev yer got that?”

“Yes,” stammered the bewildered captive.

“Then git!”

The Lascar sprang to his feet with the agility of a panther, leaped through the hatch above him, and disappeared over the bow of the ship with an unhesitating directness that showed that every avenue of escape had been already contemplated by him.  Slipping lightly from the cutwater to the ground, he continued his flight, only stopping at the private office of Mr. Sleight.

When Mr. Renshaw and Rosey Nott arrived on board the Pontiac that evening, they were astonished to find the passage before the cabin completely occupied with trunks and boxes, and the bulk of their household goods apparently in the process of removal.  Mr. Nott, who was superintending the work of two Chinamen, betrayed not only no surprise at the appearance of the young people, but not the remotest recognition of their own bewilderment at his occupation.