"Sure you understood the name right, George?" he inquired. "My name's
Millard. What kind of a looking lady is this Mrs. May?"
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.
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