Mr. and Madame Sagittarius, completely overlooked in the throng, elbowed, trampled upon, jogged from behind and prodded from before, gazed with a passion of bitter envy at their worshipped rivals, who were set in the full blaze of success, while they languished in the outer darkness of anonymous obscurity. “_O miseris hominum men_--don’t set your feet on me, sir, if you please!” cried Madame. “_O pectorae caec_--ma’am, I beg you to take your elbow from my throat this minute!” But even her powerful and indignant organ was lost in the hubbub that mingled with the wild music of the guitars, to which was now added the tinkle of bells and the vehement click of a round dozen of castanets, marking the bull-fighting rhythm of a new air called “The Espada’s Return to Madrid.” “Jupiter!” she gurgled. “I shall be suff--” “Mr. Amos Towle!” roared the footman savagely. “The great medium from the Wick!” “Towle the seer!” “Amos Towle, the famous spiritualist!” “Mr. Towle who materialises!” “The celebrated Towle!” “The great and only Towle!” “Oh, is it _the_ Towle?” “I must see Towle!” “Where is he? Oh, where is Towle?” “Towle who communicates with the other world!” “Towle the magician!” “Towle the hypnotist!” “Towle the soothsayer!” “The magnetic Towle!” “The electric Towle!” “We must--we must see Towle!” Such were a very few of the exclamations that instantly burst forth upon the conclusion of the footman’s announcement. The elbowing and trampling became more violent than ever, and Mrs. Bridgeman was forced--from lack of room--to forego her society start, though she was still able to indulge in her society smile, as she bowed, with almost swooning graciousness, to a short, perspiring, bald and side-whiskered man in greasy broadcloth, who looked as if he would have been quite at home upon the box of a four-wheeled cab, as indeed he would, seeing that he had driven a growler for five-and-twenty years before discovering that he was the great and only Towle, medium, seer, and worker-of-miracles-in-chief to the large and increasing crowd that lives the silly life. “Oh, Mr. Towle--charmed, delighted!” cried Mrs. Bridgeman. “I was so afraid--How sweet of you to come out all this way from your eyrie at the Wick! You’ll find many friends--dear Madame Charlotte--the Professor--Mrs. Eliza--they’re all here. And Miss Minerva, too! Your greatest admirer and disciple!” At this moment the crowd, wild in its endeavour to touch the inspired broadcloth of the great Towle, surged forward, and the Prophet was driven like a ram against the left side of his hostess. “I beg--your--pard--” he gasped; “but could you tell--me--where Miss Minerv--erva--is? I special--ly want to--to--” “I think she’s with Eureka in tea-room number 1,” replied Mrs. Bridgeman. “Oh, dear! Near the band. Oh, dear! Oh, my gown! Oh! So sweet of you to come, Mrs. Lorrimer! Just a few interesting people! Oh, gracious mercy! Oh, for goodness’ sake!”