It was a pleasant dinner for both, and each seemed to find out a good deal
about the other's likings and dislikings, though--perhaps purposely,
perhaps by accident--they said singularly little about their own affairs,
their past lives, or future intentions. Afterward, in her own room, Angela
laughed as she thought over the day and the queer things she had somehow
been led into doing.

"It's too quaint that I should have borrowed money of him!" she said to
herself, giggling under her breath like a schoolgirl. "Of course, on top
of that, it's nothing at all that I should invite him to lunch and dine.
And the funniest part is, it never once seemed queer at the time, or as if
I could do anything else."

At all events she had no regrets. The coincidence of Mr. Nickson
Hilliard's appearance in New Orleans, just as her hour of need was
striking, had given a bright side to what would otherwise have been a
disagreeable and sordid adventure. Certainly there was something about him
that inspired confidence. She felt that through him she might retrieve her
bag; and, if, by chance, the money were intact she could pay him what she
owed. He would then return the miniature frame, and it would not be
necessary to give her address or say where she was going! Not that he
would misuse such information. She was sure of this now, and she could not
help being pleased that he had come back into her life just for one
day--long enough to explain himself.

Next morning, at a quarter-past ten precisely, a note was brought to her
room. It began:

"Dear Madam" (Nick had not dared venture upon "Dear Mrs. May"; it had not
even occurred to him that he might), and informed her primly that the bag