‘Here’s one of the telegrams.’

Mr. Reuben read it, looked at little Nina, and smiled; he never laughed.

‘Is it possible, Miss Malpas,’ said he, ’that you don’t know who Mr. Belmont and Mr. Pank are?’ And then, as she shook her head, he continued in his impassive, precise way:  ’Mr. Belmont is one of the principal theatrical managers in the United States.  Mr. Pank is one of the principal playwrights in the United States.  Mr. Pank’s melodrama ‘Nebraska’ is now being played at the Regency by Mr. Belmont’s own American company.  Another of Mr. Belmont’s companies starts shortly for a tour in the provinces with the musical comedy ‘The Dolmenico Doll.’  I believe that Mr. Pank and Mr. Belmont are now writing a new melodrama, and as they have both been travelling, but not together, I expect that these telegrams relate to that melodrama.  Did you suppose that safe-burglars wire their plans to each other like this?’ He waved the telegram with a gesture of fatigue.

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.