"I call it the 'Lucky Star Ranch,'" he added.
"I'll write you from Los Angeles," said she, and became conscious that her
last words had been overheard by Mr. Millard. He had seated himself at a
table close by, and now glanced up with such an intelligent look that she
was sure he had taken in something of the situation.
When the journey through Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona was over, and the
train slowed into the station at Los Angeles, she had cause to remember
this incident, for Millard was on the car steps, just in front of her. He
caught up the large dressing-bag which the porter had carried out of her
stateroom, and, looking back, said:
"It's my turn to help you a little now, Mrs. May, since your friend's
going on farther. You're English, I guess; and if you haven't got anybody
to show you around here, you must let me make myself useful."
"I would rather the porter took all my luggage, please," replied Angela,
glancing about for her black friend. But doubtless Mr. Millard had claimed
authority, and "George" was giving his services to some one else.
"Porter isn't here. You'd better let me look after you, and get a
carriage," said Millard, whose legitimate business it was to travel for a
manufacturing firm.
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