"Adio, Signor'," called out old Gonzague, who was standing by the main-rigging.
"A riverderla forse" returned the collector from the stern-sheets of the cutter.
"Il mondo è piccolo, Signor'. Spero," answered the Provençal.
"Oars!" cried Jack. "Bear away,—let fall,—ready,—pull." And the cutter bore away the strange collector toward the shore of his adopted country.
Jerry watched the boat for a moment, his big heart not untouched by a sympathetic friendliness for the lonely man, whose life seemed to him so warped and melancholy. He half expected Wrenmarsh to look back to nod or to wave his hand, but the collector's eyes were turned steadily to the shore. It was chill on deck, and Tab went below.
Gonzague was just taking away the last of the breakfast things. He set his tray on the table, and approached the mate deferentially.
"Mistaire Taberman, sair," he said, putting his hand in his pocket, and drawing out a small square blue box and a note, "Mistaire Wrainmairsh he geeve me de box and de lettair—also a crown in extrair dat I geeve dem to you when he have leef."
"Eh? what?" asked Jerry. "Oh, I see. Thank you."
He sat down on the port transom, and opened the box. It contained a small object carefully wrapped in tissue paper. He unfolded the paper, and between his fingers a gold finger-ring slipped on to the green corduroy cushion of the transom.