"I know who you mean now, and I guess it's Millard she inquired for," said the gentleman of that name. "You got it a little mixed."
So a minute or two later Angela had her second surprise of the evening. Expecting Nick, and with her first shot prepared, she saw at her stateroom door a man as different as night from day—the man who had stared in the dining-car. He had a dyed black moustache, like the brand of Cain, and an air of thinking that women and other animals of the chase were made for him to hunt.
"Mrs. May, I believe?" he began politely. "I'm Mr. Millard. I think you sent for me. We've met somewhere before, and——"
Angela explained matters coldly, in three words; though she fancied that no explanation was needed. Mr. Millard showed signs of seeking an excuse to linger, but none was granted. Even Timmy was in a dangerous mood, and, as Kate appeared, on her way back from dinner, the gentleman from the next car retired in good order.
"You saw Mr. Hilliard, who brought my—a gold bag to the sitting-room in New Orleans?" Angela said to Kate. "He's in the car between this and the dining-car. Please find him, and let him know that I should like to see him here."
Kate's quest produced Nick; and Mrs. May did not mention Mr. Millard. She fired her shot without warning.
"This is not my gold bag."
Nick's jaw squared itself. "It is your bag," he insisted.
"Mine had twenty-eight stones. This has thirty. How is that to be explained?"
"How should I tell?" he echoed, bold as brass. "It's a question for the police." She had scolded him for confessing. He would not court the lash again.