The child with the golden hair desisted in her occupation of watching the flying-fish and other real-winged creatures, and, leaving the rail, walked toward the group that was about to follow Mr. Gillett.  She was a very beautiful girl of ten or eleven; slim, delicately fashioned, of a definite proud type.  But although she held herself erect, in an unconscious patrician sort of way, there was, also, about her something wayward and different from the conventional, aristocratic set.  The disordered golden hair proclaimed it, while in the depths of the fine, blue eyes manifold changing lights told of a capriciousness out of the pale of a stiffly decorous and well-contained caste.

“May I go, too, aunt?” she repeated.

“Why, of course!” interposed a blase, cynical-appearing young man who had just emerged from the cabin.  “Don’t know where she wants to go, or what she wants to do; but don’t say she can’t; really you mustn’t, now.”

“Well, since you insist on spoiling her, Lord Ronsdale—­”

He twisted a blond mustache which adorned a handsome face that bore many marks of what is called experience of the world.  “Couldn’t do that!  Besides, Jocelyn and I are great chums, don’t you know.  We’re going to be married some day when she grows up.”

“Are we?” said the child.  “The man I marry must be very big and strong, and must not have light hair.”

Lord Ronsdale laughed tolerantly.

“Plenty of time for you to change your mind, don’t you know.  Meanwhile, I’ll not despair.  Faint heart, and so on.  But,” turning to Sir Charles, “where is it she ‘wants to go?’”

“To see the convicts.”

“Convicts?  Ah!” He spoke rather more quickly than usual, with accent sharper.

“You didn’t know who your neighbors were going to be when you decided so suddenly to accompany us?”

“No.”  His voice had a metallic sound.

Sir Charles addressed Mr. Gillett.  “Tell us something more definite about your charges whom we are going to inspect.  Meant to have found out earlier in the voyage, but been so jolly seasick, what with one gale after another, I for one, until now, haven’t much cared whether we had Claude Duval and Dick Turpin themselves for neighbors, or whether we all went straight to Davy Jones’ locker together.  A bad lot, you have already informed us!  But how bad?”

“Well, we haven’t exactly M. Duval or Mr. Turpin in the pen, but we’ve one or two others almost as celebrated in their way.  There’s Billy Burke, as desperate a cracksman as the country can produce, with,” complacently, “a record second to none in his class.  He”—­and Mr. Gillett, with considerable zest entered into the details of Mr. Burke’s eventful and rapacious career.  “Then there’s the ‘’Frisco Pet,’ or the ‘Pride of Golden Gate,’ as some of the sporting papers call him.”

“The ’Frisco Pet!” Lord Ronsdale started; his color slightly changed; his lashes drooped over his cold eyes.  “He is on board this vessel?”