He and his companions spoke but little together as they journeyed. Occasionally Madame and Mr. Sagittarius conversed in husky whispers, like brigands the Prophet thought, and the veiled click of Madame’s contralto struck through the startled air. But mostly a silence prevailed--a silence alive with fate. At the corner of Air Street they got out and began to walk down Piccadilly towards the Berkeley square. It was now evening. The lamps were lighted and the murmur of strolling crowds filled the gloomy air. Madame stared feverishly about her, excited by the press, the flashing hansoms and the gaily-illuminated shops. Once, as she passed Benoist’s, she murmured “_O festum dies_!” and again, by the Berkeley, when she was momentarily jostled by a very large and umbrageous tramp who had apparently been celebrating the joys of beggary--“_Acto profanus vulgam_!” But generally she was silent, enwrapped, no doubt, in bookish thought. When, at length, they stood before the door of number one thousand she breathed a heavy sigh. “Please,” said the Prophet, in a trembling voice, “please enter quietly. My grandmother is very unwell.” “Ankles seems to be a very painful complaint, sir,” said Mr. Sagittarius. “But Madame and self are not in the habit of creating uproar by our movements.” “No, no. Of course not. Still--on tiptoe if you don’t mind.” “I cannot walk on tiptoe,” said Madame, in a voice that sounded to the Prophet terrifically powerful. “The attitude is precarious and undignified. As the great Juvenile--” “Yes, yes. Ah! that’s it!” He managed to get his key into the door and very gingerly opened it. Madame and Mr. Sagittarius stepped into the hall, followed closely by the Prophet, who was content on conveying them unobserved to the library. “This way,” he whispered. “This way. Softly! Softly!”