"No time for chatting," Gervase said nervously. "We've got to get this over in a hurry. Now comes the part when your friends will have to look like real removers. I hope they can give it that professional touch." "We are real removers in a sense," said one of the black-robed figures. "At least, both of us have participated in removals before." They dropped their hoods. Gervase's mouth hung open. "Why, you're Overlord Moorhouse!" he said to one. "And I've seen pictures of you!" he told the other. "You're the one that came before him--Shinnick. You died before I was born--that is, you were supposed to have died. Both of you were. Moorhouse killed--was supposed to have killed you." Ex-Overlord Shinnick smiled. "We're not precisely dead--only retired, you might say. In a way, anonymity is the same as death. And Overlords Moorhouse and Kipp--" he bowed toward them--"both had kind hearts, like yourself. The Prognosticator didn't say we had to be killed--just disposed of, as Kipp undoubtedly pointed out to you in your little talk together." "Sorry I couldn't tell you the truth," Kipp apologized as he dusted off his uniform, "but you might have changed your mind and given us away." "We've formed a sort of little club of dead Overlords," Shinnick elucidated. "After all, we're the only ones with whom we can associate safely--no danger of any one of us betraying the others." "We're looking forward to the day when you join us, Overlord Schnee," Moorhouse put in eagerly, "assuming that your successor is of as generous a nature as we, of course. Do you play bridge by any chance?" "You'd better hurry." Gervase worriedly changed the subject as he noticed the time on the wall chronometer. "If the four of us are discovered, the mob would tear us all to pieces." "Right you are," said ex-Overlord Shinnick. "Get on the stretcher, Kipp. Bad enough we're going to have to carry you out; at least don't expect us to lift you up." Kipp obediently assumed a recumbent posture: Shinnick and Moorhouse covered him with a black cloth and were preparing to march out when Gervase recollected himself and halted them. "Wait a moment--you'd better take off those medals first, Kipp. They come with the job." "Grave-robber," said Kipp, reluctantly sitting up on his catafalque and unfastening the jeweled decorations. * * * * * When the little procession had left, Gervase pressed a stud on the desk marked _Secretary_. A panel in the wall opened and a timorous-looking man virtually fell into the room. "Y-yes, Your Honorship?" "The Prognosticator is right here in the Palace, isn't it?" Gervase asked, in a tone that would have been authoritative if his voice hadn't cracked right in the middle of _Palace_. "Y-yes, Your Honorship." "Lead me to it immediately." "Su-certainly, Your Honorship."