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Silly, ruined Nina made no answer.

‘Do you ever read the papers–the Telegraph or the Mail, Miss Malpas?’

‘N-no, sir.’

‘You ought to, then you wouldn’t be so ignorant and silly. A hotel-clerk can’t know too much. And, by-the-way, what were you doing in Mr. Belmont’s room last night, when you found these wonderful telegrams?’

‘I went there–I went there–to—-‘

‘Don’t cry, please, it won’t help you. You must leave here to-day. You’ve been here three weeks, I think. I’ll tell Mr. Smith to pay you your month’s wages. You don’t know enough for the Majestic, Miss Malpas. Or perhaps you know too much. I’m sorry. I had thought you would suit us. Keep straight, that’s all I have to say to you. Go back to Doncaster, or wherever it is you came from. Leave before five o’clock. That will do.’

With a godlike air, Mr. Reuben swung round his office-chair and faced his desk. He tried not to perceive that there was a mysterious quality about this case which he had not quite understood. Nina tripped piteously out.

In the whole of London Nina had one acquaintance, and an hour or so later, after drinking some tea, she set forth to visit this acquaintance. The weight of her own foolishness, fatuity, silliness, and ignorance was heavy upon her. And, moreover, she had been told that Mr. Lionel Belmont had already departed back to America, his luggage being marked for the American Transport Line.

She was primly walking, the superlative of the miserable, past the facade of the hotel, when someone sprang out of a cab and spoke to her. And it was Mr. Lionel Belmont.

‘Get right into this hansom, Miss Malpas,’ he said kindly, ‘and I guess we’ll talk it out.’

‘Talk what out?’ she thought.

But she got in.

‘Marble Arch, and go up Regent Street, and don’t hurry,’ said Mr. Belmont to the cabman.

‘How did he know my name?’ she asked herself.

‘A hansom’s the most private place in London,’ he said after a pause.

It certainly did seem to her very cosy and private, and her nearness to one of the principal theatrical managers in America was almost startling. Her white frock, with the black velvet decorations, touched his gray suit.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘I do wish you’d tell me why you were in my parlour last night. Honest.’

‘What for?’ she parried, to gain time.

Should she begin to disclose her identity?

‘Because–well, because–oh, look here, my girl, I want to be on very peculiar terms with you. I want to straighten out everything. You’ll be sort of struck, but I’ll be bound to tell you I’m your father. Now, don’t faint or anything.’

‘Oh, I knew that!’ she gasped. ‘I saw the moles on your wrist when your were registering–mother told me about them. Oh, if I had only known you knew!’

They looked at one another.

‘It was only the day before yesterday I found out I possessed such a thing as a daughter. I had a kind of fancy to go around to the old spot. This notion of me having a daughter struck me considerable, and I concluded to trace her and size her up at once.’ Nina was bound to smile. ‘So your poor mother’s been dead three years?’

‘Yes,’ said Nina.

‘Ah! don’t let us talk about that. I feel I can’t say just the right thing…. And so you knew me by those pips.’ He pulled up his right sleeve. ‘Was that why you came up to my parlour?’

Nina nodded, and Lionel Belmont sighed with relief.

‘Why didn’t you tell me at once, my dear, who you where?’

‘I didn’t dare,’ she smiled; ‘I was afraid. I thought you wouldn’t—-‘

‘Listen,’ he said; ‘I’ve wanted someone like you for years, years, and years. I’ve got no one to look after—-‘

‘Then why didn’t you tell me at once who you were?’ she questioned with adorable pertness.

‘Oh!’ he laughed; ‘how could I–plump like that? When I saw you first, in the bureau, the stricken image of your mother at your age, I was nearly down. But I came up all right, didn’t I, my dear? I acted it out well, didn’t I?’