"The male person got on his toes at once, sir, but the female person
shrieks out, 'Is it catching? Ho! Think of--of Capericornopus,' sir, or
something to that effect."

"Tch! Tch!"

"I took the liberty to say, sir, that ankles was not catching, and
that I would certainly think of Capericornopus if she would but walk
a-tiptoe."

"Well, and--"

"By hook and cook I got them to the library, sir. But the male person's
boots creaked awful. The getting on his toes, sir seemed to induce it,
as you might say."

"Yes, yes. So they're in the library?"

"They are, sir, and have been talking incessant, sir, ever since they
was put there. We can hear their voices in our hall, sir."

Mr. Ferdinand again pursed his lips and looked like an elderly lady. The
Prophet could no longer meet his eye.

"Bring some tea, Mr. Ferdinand, quietly to the library. And--and if Mrs.
Merillia should ask for me say I'm--say I'm busy--er--writing."

Mr. Ferdinand moved a step backward.

"Master Hennessey!" he cried in a choked voice. "I, a London butler, and
you ask me to--!"

"No, no. I beg your pardon, Mr. Ferdinand. Simply say I'm busy. That
will be quite true. I shall be--very busy."

"Yes, sir," said Mr. Ferdinand with a stern and at length successful
effort to conquer his outraged feelings.

He wavered heavily away to fetch the tea, while the Prophet, like a
guilty thing, stole towards the library. When he drew near to the door
he heard a somewhat resounding hubbub of conversation proceeding
within the chamber. He distinguished two voices. One was the hollow
and sepulchral organ of Malkiel the Second, the other was a heavy and
authoritative contralto, of the buzzing variety, which occasionally
gave an almost professional click--suggesting mechanism--as the speaker
passed from the lower to the upper register of her voice. As the Prophet
reached the mat outside the door he heard the contralto voice say,--

"How are we to know it really is only ankles?"

The voice of Malkiel the Second replied plaintively,--

"But the gentleman who opened the door and--"

The contralto voice clicked, and passed to its upper register.

"You are over fifty years of age," it said with devastating compassion,
"and you can still trust a gentleman who opens doors! _O sanctum
simplicitatus!_"

On hearing this sudden gush of classical erudition the Prophet must have
been seized by a paralysing awe, for he remained as if glued to the mat,
and made no