“What the devil he wants to turn up here for!”

Clearly he had not heard a word of the anecdote.  And this annoyed me, because the anecdote was really good.  I stared at him.

“Come, come!” I cried.  “Don’t you know what Jasper Allen is turning up here for?”

This was the first open allusion I had ever made to the true state of affairs between Jasper and his daughter.  He took it very calmly.

“Oh, Freya is a sensible girl!” he murmured absently, his mind’s eye obviously fixed on the “authorities.”  No; Freya was no fool.  He was not concerned about that.  He didn’t mind it in the least.  The fellow was just company for her; he amused the girl; nothing more.

When the perspicacious old chap left off mumbling, all was still in the house.  The other two were amusing themselves very quietly, and no doubt very heartily.  What more absorbing and less noisy amusement could they have found than to plan their future?  Side by side on the verandah they must have been looking at the brig, the third party in that fascinating game.  Without her there would have been no future.  She was the fortune and the home, and the great free world for them.  Who was it that likened a ship to a prison?  May I be ignominiously hanged at a yardarm if that’s true.  The white sails of that craft were the white wings—­pinions, I believe, would be the more poetical style—­well, the white pinions, of their soaring love.  Soaring as regards Jasper.  Freya, being a woman, kept a better hold of the mundane connections of this affair.

But Jasper was elevated in the true sense of the word ever since the day when, after they had been gazing at the brig in one of those decisive silences that alone establish a perfect communion between creatures gifted with speech, he proposed that she should share the ownership of that treasure with him.  Indeed, he presented the brig to her altogether.  But then his heart was in the brig since the day he bought her in Manilla from a certain middle-aged Peruvian, in a sober suit of black broadcloth, enigmatic and sententious, who, for all I know, might have stolen her on the South American coast, whence he said he had come over to the Philippines “for family reasons.”  This “for family reasons” was distinctly good.  No true caballero would care to push on inquiries after such a statement.

Indeed, Jasper was quite the caballero.  The brig herself was then all black and enigmatical, and very dirty; a tarnished gem of the sea, or, rather, a neglected work of art.  For he must have been an artist, the obscure builder who had put her body together on lovely lines out of the hardest tropical timber fastened with the purest copper.  Goodness only knows in what part of the world she was built.  Jasper himself had not been able to ascertain much of her history from his sententious, saturnine Peruvian—­if the fellow was a Peruvian, and not the devil himself in disguise, as Jasper jocularly pretended to believe.  My opinion is that she was old enough to have been one of the last pirates, a slaver perhaps, or else an opium clipper of the early days, if not an opium smuggler.