"What he says is quite true, Warden," St. George interposed
courteously, "I will vouch for him. I have just been singing for the
Readers' Guild myself."

The warden dropped back with a grudging apology and brows of tardy
suspicion, and the old man blinked his buckle eyes.

"Gentlemen," said St. George, "good morning."

Outside the door, with its panels decorated in positive
prohibitions, he eagerly unfolded the precious paper. It bore a
single name and address: Tabnit, 19 McDougle Street, New York.




CHAPTER III

ST. GEORGE AND THE LADY


St. George lunched leisurely at his hotel. Upon his return from
Westchester he had gone directly to McDougle Street to be assured
that there was a house numbered 19. Without difficulty he had found
the place; it was in the row of old iron-balconied apartment houses
a few blocks south of Washington Square, and No. 19 differed in no
way from its neighbours even to the noisy children, without toys,
tumbling about the sunken steps and dark basement door. St. George
contented himself with walking past the house, for the mere