The girl, standing partly in the aisle, was now leaning limply against the door-sill, her hand pressed convulsively to her breast, her face white and frightened.
"Is you ill, Miss?" asked the porter anxiously.
"I—no. Z—what name was that you read?"
"George Z. Green, Miss——"
"It—it can't be! Look again! It can't be!"
Her face was ashen to the lips; she closed her eyes for a second, swayed; then her hand clutched the door-sill; she straightened up with an effort and opened her eyes, which now seemed dilated by some powerful emotion.[214]
"Let me see that name!" she said, controlling her voice with an obvious effort.
The porter turned the pocket inside out for her inspection. There it was:
"George Z. Green: 1008-1/2 Fifth Avenue, New York."
"If you knows de gemman, Miss," suggested the porter, "you all kin take dishere garmint back yo'se'f when you comes No'th."