"Ye-es. But I feel my homesickness coming on again. I shouldn't wonder if
I'll always be sort of restless, now, away from the West. It's my
country--anyhow, the country of my heart."

Angela came near saying, "So it is mine." But that might have necessitated
explanations. "Well, you must take the security, I'm afraid," she said,
"or I can't take the loan. As I told you, I left most of my things in New
York, to be sent on when I settle down. Still, there's _one_ thing, which
I couldn't pawn, or leave with hotel people. But I wouldn't mind giving it
to you. It's a diamond frame for a miniature I always carry with me. I
could take the miniature out."

Nick stared hard at the carpet again. He was afraid to let her see the
look on his face. "It's her dead husband's picture," he thought. "She must
have loved him, if she always carries his portrait around." Aloud he said,
"Very well, if you won't do my way, I'll have to do yours."

"I'll give you the address of my bank; and I must have your address,"
Angela went on. "Then, if you should change your mind and stay here----"

"I'm going to stay just long enough to get your bag," he replied.

She laughed. "That may be forever."

"I reckon it will be some hours at longest."

"You must be a wonderful detective!"

"There's more of the bulldog than the detective in me. But it will go hard
if we don't find that bag."