My name at present was William Juggins, and I had a feeling of reluctance at practising deceit upon this girl at our first meeting. But she saved me from my quandary.
"You will not be what you might seem, sir," she said gravely. "That I can see, and perhaps you will not think me indiscreet if I say so much."
"'Tis true," I assented eagerly. "Indeed——"
"But you will be meeting my—" she hesitated ever so little—"my father presently, no doubt, and he will make us known to one another. Now I must go on deck."
And she walked by me with a faint swish of skirts that sounded like an echo of far-off fairy music.
Her father! Who could he be? And then realization smote me.
Plainly, she could not be de Veulle's daughter—nor Captain Abbot's. She was Murray's.
I went back into my cabin and shut the door, feeling not altogether satisfied, despite the fragrance of her person which still lingered in my nostrils, the recollection of her dainty charm, the indefinable tone of high breeding which had emanated from her.
Murray's daughter! I rebelled against the idea. It could not be. It ought not to be. What right had he to a daughter—and such a maid as this? 'Twas absurd! Manifestly absurd!
Why, I must hate the man. I had no other recourse. And he had a daughter! And above all this daughter!