“But I supposed she had had the nightmare. It seems that I was wrong. If you will step in, you can search the house at once. And if you discover this nameless creature changing his--that is Mr. Ferdinand’s trouserings--trousers, that is,--in any part of the building, as far as I am concerned you can murder him forthwith.” The Prophet spoke quite calmly, in a soft and level voice. Yet there was something so frightful in his tone and manner that even Sir Tiglath seemed slightly awe-stricken. At any rate, he accepted the Prophet’s invitation in silence, and stepped almost furtively into the hall, on whose floor Gustavus was still posed in the conventional attitude of the Christian martyr. Lady Enid eagerly followed, and the Prophet was just about to close the door, when a dark, hovering figure that was pausing at a short distance off upon the pavement attracted his attention. He stopped short, and, perceiving that it was a policeman, beckoned to it. The figure approached. “What’s up now?” it said familiarly, emphasising the question with a sharp contraction of the left eyelid. “You’re having a nice game to-night, and no mistake.” “Game!” replied the Prophet, sternly. “This is no game. Stand there, by the area gate, and if anyone should run out, knock him down with your truncheon. Do you hear me?” With these impressive words he entered the house and shut the door, leaving the policeman to whistle inquiringly to the stars that were watching over this house, once peaceful, but now the abode of violence and tragedy. In the hall he found Gustavus still on his knees between Lady Enid and Sir Tiglath. “Lady Enid,” he said, even in this hour mindful of the proprieties, “you have heard what this villain is doing here, and must be sensible that you can take no part in this search.” “Oh, but I particularly want--” began Lady Enid, hastily. “Pardon me,” said the Prophet, with more firmness than Napoleon ever showed to his marshals. “You must retire. Please come this way. Mrs. Fancy will look after you.” “Oh, but really, Mr. Vivian, I--” “Kindly follow me.” Lady Enid hesitated for a moment, but the Prophet’s manner was too much for her, and when he stepped, like a clockwork automaton with a steel interior, towards the staircase, she crept mildly in his wake. “Can’t I really--?” she whispered in his ear. “Certainly not. If you were a married woman, possibly--” “Well, but I am engaged,” she murmured. The Prophet stopped short. “Engaged!” he said. “To whom?” “Sir Tiglath.” “Engaged to Sir Tiglath!” “Yes. He proposed to me to-night at Zoological House.” “Why?” She might well have resented the question, but perhaps she divined the distraught and almost maniacal condition of mind that the Prophet masked beneath his impassive demeanour. At any rate she answered frankly,-- “Because he didn’t find out I’m Miss Minerva, and in the midst of Mrs. Bridgeman’s silly world I stood right out as the only sensible creature living. Isn’t it fun?” “Fun!”