t you and Amory are to go along. Can you go?"

Little Cawthorne's blue eyes met St. George's steadily for a moment,
and without changing his gaze he reached for his hat.

"I can get the page done in an hour," he promised, "and I can pack
my thirty cents in ten minutes. Will that do?"

St. George laughed.

"Ah, well now, this goes," he said. "Ask Chillingworth. Don't tell
any one else."

"'Billy Enny took a penny,'" hummed Little Cawthorne in perfect
tranquillity.

St. George set off at once for the McDougle Street house. A thousand
doubts beset him and he felt that if he could once more be face to
face with the amazing prince these might be better cleared away.
Moreover, the glimpses which the prince had given him of a world
which seemed to lie as definitely outside the bourne of present
knowledge as does death itself filled St. George with unrest, spiced
his incredulity with wonder, and he found himself longing to talk
more of the things at which the strange man had hinted.

The squalor of the street was even less bearable in the early
morning. St. George wondered, as he hurried across from the Grand
Street station, how the prince had understood that he must not only
avoid the great hotels, but that he must actually seek out
incredible surroundings like these to be certain of privacy. For
only the very poor are sufficiently immersed in their own affairs to
be guiltless of curiosity, save indeed a kind of surface morbid
wonderment at crepe upon a door or the coming of a well-dressed
woman to their neighbourhood. The prince might have lived in
McDougle Street for years without exciting more than derisive
comment of the denizens, derision being no other than their humour
gone astray.

St. George tapped at the door which the night before had admitted
him to such revelation. There was no answer, and a repeated summons
brought no sound from within. At length he tentatively touched the
latch. The door opened. The room was quite empty. No remnant of
furniture remained.

He entered, involuntarily peering about as if he expected to find
the prince in a dusty corner. The windows were still shuttered, and
he threw open the blinds, admitting rectangles of sunlight. He could
have found it in his heart, as he looked blankly at the four walls,
to doubt that he had been there at all the night before, so
emphatically did the surroundings deny that they had ever harboured
a title. But on the floor at his feet lay a scrap of