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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 expression became a byword among the citizens of the town, and every reappearance of McDougle was accepted as a herald that our outfits from the Eagle Chief were coming in with cattle. A special meeting of the stockholders was called at Washington that fall, which all the Western members attended.
It was somewhere in the South Atlantic, ten months or more ago." "Ah," St. George quietly commented. "Well, and now this frightful creature," resumed Mrs. Hastings, "do, pray, tell me what it was she wrote." St. George produced the paper. "That is it," he said. "I fancy you will not know the street. It is 19 McDougle Street, and the name is simply Tabnit." "Yes.
"I dare say that means something," he said vaguely to himself, "and I dare say all the people who are in love know what it does mean," and at this his spirit of adventure must have nodded at him, as if it understood, too. When, in a little time, Prince Tabnit appeared at the open door of the "porch of light," it was as if he had parted from St. George in McDougle Street but the night before.
George remembered miserably how, in that dingy house in McDougle Street, he and Olivia had listened once before to the recital of that law from the prince's lips. If they had known how next they would hear it! If they had known then what that law would come to mean to her! What could she do now what could even Olivia do now but assent? She could do a great deal, it appeared.
George fervently, and he couldn't possibly have told whether he meant the mystery of the island or the mystery of that hour there with her. There was so little difference. "Suppose," said Olivia whimsically, "that we open our eyes in a minute, and find that we are in the prince's room in McDougle Street, and that he has passed his hand before our faces and made us dream all this.
George was silent, ecstatically reviewing the events of the last six hours and thinking unenviously of Amory, rocking somewhere with The Aloha on a mere stretch of green water: "If Chillingworth could see me now," he thought victoriously, as the carriage turned smartly into McDougle Street.
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.
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