Rachel was on her feet in a moment.
“I must be going,” she said. “Which way do I get out?”
“Rosebud, show the young lady the door—she’s in a hurry.” The Pilot never so much as took his eyes off the boot that he was unlacing.
Leading the way through the intricate passages, Rose conducted Rachel to the front door, and came back, smiling.
“Now, what does she want?” asked the Pilot. “She’s a mighty strange craft to be sailing in these waters. There’s a queer foreign rake about her t’gallant mast that’s new to me. Where’s she owned, Rosebud?”
“That’s Miss Varnhagen.”
“What! the Jew’s dar’ter? Well, well. That accounts for the cut of her jib. Old Varnhagen’s dar’ter? ’Want to sell anything?”
Rose laughed. “Oh, no. She came, fishing.”
“Fishing?”
“Fishing for news. She’s very anxious to know how much gold Mr. Scarlett has got; in fact, she’s very anxious to know all about Mr. Scarlett.”