t of it."

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 t