“Any one called, Mr. Ferdinand?” asked the Prophet with an attempt at airy gaiety. “Yes, sir,” replied Mr. Ferdinand, looking rather like an elderly maiden lady when she unexpectedly encounters her cook taking an airing with a corporal in the Life Guards, “the pair of persons you expected, sir, has come.” The Prophet blushed. “Oh! You--you haven’t disturbed Mrs. Merillia with them, I hope,” he rejoined. “No, sir, indeed. Gustavus said your orders was that they was to be shown quietly to the library.” “Exactly.” “I begged them to walk a-tiptoe, sir.” “What?” ejaculated the Prophet. “I informed them there was illness in the house, sir.” “And did they--er--?” “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!_”