He caught her head in his hands and kissed her gaily on her forehead--after all, he had no more manners than can be expected of a tramp--and vanished. "If Dick could only play 'Desdemona'!" she murmured, looking after him at the closed door. "Why, he actually _looked_ the part. I suppose he has been in love. If I could only do it so!" She imitated his gestures, and broke out into singing-- "The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree, Sing all a green willow." "No," she said; "it won't do. I don't feel a bit like Desdemona. I am only myself, and I am filled with the most unholy longing for money--for riches, for filthy lucre, which we are told to despise." Her eyes fell upon a newspaper, folded and lying on the floor. It had probably dropped out of Dick's pocket. She took it up mechanically, and opened it, expecting nothing. The sheet was one of the gossipy papers of the day, full of personal paragraphs. She glanced at it, thinking of the paragraphs about herself and her grand success, which would probably never appear, unless she could transform herself. Presently her eye caught the word "millionaire," and she read-- "Among the _nouveaux riches_--the millionaires of the West--we must not, as Englishmen, forget to enumerate Mr. John Haveril, who has made his money partly by transactions in silver-mines, and partly by the sudden creation of a town on his own lands. He is said to be worth no more than two or three millions sterling, so that he is not in the very front rank of American rich men. Still, there is a good deal of spending, even in so moderate a fortune. Mr. Haveril is by birth an Englishman and a Yorkshireman. He was born about sixty years ago, and emigrated about the year '55. His wife is also of English origin, having been born at Hackney. Her maiden name was Alice Pennefather." Molly looked up in bewilderment. "There can't be two people of that name!" she said. She went on with the paper-- "They have no children to inherit their wealth. They have arrived in London, and have taken rooms at the Hôtel Métropole." That was all. She put the paper on the table. "Alice Pennefather! Why, she must be the Alice who disappeared--Dad's first cousin! But Alice married an actor named Anthony; Dad gave her away. He often wondered what had become of her. This Mr. Haveril is a second husband, I suppose. And now she's a millionairess! I think I might go and call upon her at the Hôtel Métropole. I will." CHAPTER VII. THE MASTER OF THE SITUATION. The lady looked at the card. "Sir Richard Steele, M.D., F.R.S.," and in the corner, "245, Harley Street, W." "Who is Sir Richard Steele?" Her visitor came upstairs. He stood before her and bowed. "I was right," he said. "I remember your face perfectly. But you do not appear to remember me, Lady Woodroffe." "Indeed, Sir Richard. But if you will refresh my memory----"