paper, twisted
and torn. He picked it up. It was traced in indistinguishable
characters, but it bore the Holland coat of arms and crown which the
prince had shown them. St. George put the paper in his pocket and
questioned a group of boys in the passage.

"Yup," shouted one of the boys with that prodigality of intonation
distinguishing the child of the streets, who makes every statement
as if his word had just been contradicted out of hand, "he means de
bloke wid de black block. Aw, he lef' early dis mornin' wid 's junk
follerin.' Dey's two of 'em. Wot's he t'ink? Dis ain't no Nigger's
Rest. Dis yere's all Eyetalian."

St. George hurried to Fifty-ninth Street. It was not yet ten
o'clock, but the departure of the prince made him vaguely uneasy and
for his life he could not have waited longer. Perhaps it was not
true at all; perhaps none of it had happened. The McDougle Street
part had vanished; what if the Boris too were a myth? But as he
sprang up the steps at the apartment house St. George knew better.
The night before her hand had lain in his for an infinitesimal time,
and she had said "Until to-morrow."

On sending his name to Mrs. Hastings he was immediately bidden to
her apartment. He found the drawing-room in confusion--the furniture
covered with linen, the bric-a-brac gone, and three steamer trunks
strapped and standing outside the door. All of which mattered to him
less than nothing, for Olivia was there alone.

She came down the dismantled room to meet him, smiling a little and
very pale but, St. George thought, even more beautiful than she had
been the day before. She was dressed for walking and had on a sober
little hat, and straightway St. George secretly wondered how he
could ever have approved of anything so flagrant as a Gainsborough.
She lifted her veil as they sat down, and St. George liked that. To
complete his capitulation she turned to a little table set before
the bowing flames of juniper branches in the grate.

"This is breakfast," she told him; "won't you have a cup of tea and
a muffin? Aunt Medora will be back presently from the chemist's."

For the first time St. George blessed Mrs. Hastings.

"You are really leaving to-day, Miss Holland?" he asked, noting the
little ringless hand that gave him two lumps.

"Really leaving," she assented, "at noon to-day. Mr. Frothingham
sails with us, and his daughter Antoinette, who will be a great
comfort to me. The prince doesn't know about her yet,