The black porter, who was not George, but who had answered to the name a thousand times, smiled a smile like a diamond tiara.  “She sure is the prettiest young lady I evah see, sah,” said he.  “Most ob dese wite ladies look jest alike to me.  I cyant tell one ob dere faces from de odders.  But dis one—­my!  I won’t forget her in a month o’ Sundays.”

“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.

“I wonder if you couldn’t tell—­if you would?  I insist, Mr. Hilliard, that you give me the whole truth, if you know it.  And I think you must know.”

“I warned you there was a mystery,” he mumbled.

“You gave me the impression that it was a police mystery.  Now I believe it was of your making.  A little while ago you asked me to forgive you.  Don’t you see I never can, unless you tell the truth about this wretched bag?”

“A little while ago you wouldn’t forgive me because I did tell the truth.”

She answered like a woman.  “That’s entirely different.”  And dimly Nick realized that it would be worse than useless to ask why.  Queer how a woman seemed to want only the things you were just out of!

“You—­bought this bag,” she stated.

“Oh, well, it’s no use!” groaned Nick.  “Once I thought ’twas a fake about little George Washington; but I see now it can be harder to tell lies than truth to some people.  I can’t tell one to you,” the prisoner in the dock confessed.  “I did buy the bag, but when yours is found, they’ll send it on to me.  Then we can change.”