“It seems dreadful to put on the poor thing’s clothes, doesn’t it?” she added.

Mr. Renshaw’s eyes showed so plainly that he thought otherwise, that she drew a little austerely towards the door of her state-room.

“I must change these things before any one comes,” she said dryly.

“That means I must go, I suppose.  But couldn’t you let me wait here or in the gangway until then, Miss Nott?  I am going away to-night, and I mayn’t see you again.”  He had not intended to say this, but it slipped from his embarrassed tongue.  She stopped with her hand on the door.

“You are going away?”

“I—­think—­I must leave to-night.  I have some important business in Sacramento.”

She raised her frank eyes to his.  The unmistakable look of disappointment that he saw in them gave his heart a sudden throb and sent the quick blood to his cheeks.

“It’s too bad,” she said, abstractedly.  “Nobody ever seems to stay here long.  Captain Bower promised to tell me all about the ship, and he went away the second week.  The photographer left before he finished the picture of the Pontiac; Monsieur de Ferrieres has only just gone; and now you are going.”

“Perhaps, unlike them, I have finished my season of usefulness here,” he replied, with a bitterness he would have recalled the next moment.  But Rosey, with a faint sigh, saying, “I won’t be long,” entered the state-room and closed the door behind her.

Renshaw bit his lip and pulled at the long silken threads of his mustache until they smarted.  Why had he not gone at once?  Why was it necessary to say he might not see her again—­and if he had said it, why should he add anything more?  What was he waiting for now?  To endeavor to prove to her that he really bore no resemblance to Captain Bower, the photographer, the crazy Frenchman De Ferrieres?  Or would he be forced to tell her that he was running away from a conspiracy to defraud her father—­merely for something to say?  Was there ever such folly?  Rosey was “not long,” as she had said, but he was beginning to pace the narrow cabin impatiently when the door opened and she returned.

She had resumed her ordinary calico gown, but such was the impression left upon Renshaw’s fancy that she seemed to wear it with a new grace.  At any other time he might have recognized the change as due to a new corset, which strict veracity compels me to record Rosey had adopted for the first time that morning.  Howbeit, her slight coquetry seemed to have passed, for she closed the open trunk with a return of her old listless air, and sitting on it rested her elbows on her knees and her oval chin in her hands.

“I wish you would do me a favor,” she said after a reflective pause.

“Let me know what it is and it shall be done,” replied Renshaw quickly.

“If you should come across Monsieur de Ferrieres, or hear of him, I wish you would let me know.  He was very poorly when he left here, and I should like to know if he was better.  He didn’t say where he was going.  At least, he didn’t tell father; but I fancy he and father don’t agree.”