They walked back toward the shop of the snuff-boxes gloomily discussing the situation, which was complicated by the fact that, grown cautious since the attempted burglary at the Valmont, Angela had left her most valuable jewellery in a bank at New York. It was to be sent on, insured, only when she finished her travelling, and settled down. "I'll have to call the police, I suppose," she said. "Though it's sure to do no good. I shall never see my bag again! I can telegraph to have the checks stopped at the San Francisco bank; but I had nearly five hundred dollars in the purse. What shall I do about my hotel bill and everything? And my railway tickets? We'll have to stay till I can get money." Suddenly, because it seemed impossible, she wanted passionately to start at once. Always she had hated postponing things. "Somehow, I _will_ go!" she said to herself. "I don't know how--but I will." And she walked on with Kate, back to the hotel, remembering how she had told the head clerk that this was her last day--she was giving up the rooms to-morrow. And the hotel was crammed, because there was a Convention of some sort. It might be that her suite was already let for the next day. She went to the desk, asking abruptly, "If I find that I need to stop longer, are my rooms free for to-morrow?" "Unfortunately, we've just let them--not as a suite, but separately," said the young man. "This is a big week for the Crescent City, you know, and we've got people sleeping in bathrooms." "What shall I do?" Angela exclaimed, trouble breaking down reserve. "All my money and a check-book I had in my gold bag have been stolen. I'll have to telegraph my bank." And she had visions of being deposited in a bathroom, with all her luggage and Kate, and Tim the cat. "Well, that's a shame," the clerk sympathized. "I'll tell you what I can do. A gentleman came in about an hour ago; said he was looking for a friend; glanced over the register, and must have found the name, because he's going to stay. He's got to sleep in the laundry to-night, but he's among those I've allotted to your suite to-morrow. When he hears a lady wants to keep her room, he's sure to wait for it." "I don't like to ask a favour of a stranger," Angela hesitated. "American men don't call things like that favours, when there's a lady in the case," replied the clerk. "It wouldn't do for _you_ to be in the laundry." It was rather unthinkable; so when the young man added that the newcomer might be in at any minute for luncheon, Angela flitted to her own quarters, which looked more than ever attractive now that they might be snapped away from her. She descended again soon, hoping to hear her fate; and there, by the desk, stood Mr. Nickson Hilliard.