“No,” cried the Prophet, with sudden fierce energy. “For mercy’s sake--I mean, grannie, dear; that none will come. If they should”--his ordinary gentle eyes flamed almost furiously--“Mr. Ferdinand is to burn them unread--yes, to ashes. I will tell him.” And he escorted Lady Enid tumultuously downstairs, missing his footing at every second step. In the square they parted from Mr. Green, who said,-- “Good-bye, Niddy, old girl. What do I want to pick up at Tattersall’s?” “A polo pony, Bob,” she answered firmly. “Oh, a polo pony. Thanks, Chin, chin, Hen. Polo pony is it?” He strode off, whistling “She wore a wreath of roses” in a puzzled manner, but still preserving the accepted demeanour of a bulwark. As soon as Mr. Green was out of sight Lady Enid said,-- “We aren’t going to Hill Street.” “Aren’t we?” replied the Prophet, feebly. “No. I must see Sir Tiglath Butt to-day. I want you to take me to his door.” “Where is his door?” “In Kensington Square. Do you mind hailing a four-wheeler. We can talk privately there. No one will hear us.” The Prophet hailed a growler, wondering whether they would be able to hear each other. As they got in Lady Enid, after giving the direction, said to the cabman, who was a short person, with curling ebon whiskers, a broken-up expression and a broken-down manner: “Drive slowly, please and I’ll give you an extra six-pence.” “Lydy?” “Drive slowly, and I’ll give you another six-pence.” “How did yer think I was gawing to drive, lydy?” “I wonder why cabmen are always so interested in one’s inmost thoughts,” said Lady Enid, as the horse fell down preparatory to starting. “I wonder.” “I hope he will go slowly.” “He seems to be doing so.” At this point the horse, after knocking on the front of the cab with his hind feet ten or a dozen times, got up, hung his head, and drew a large number of deep and dejected breaths. “Am I gawing slowly enough, lydy?” asked the cabman, anxiously. “Yes, but you can let him trot along now.” “Right, lydy, I ain’t preventing of him.” As eventually they scrambled slowly forward in the Kensington direction, Lady Enid remarked,-- “Why don’t you have them sent to Jellybrand’s?” “Have what?” asked the Prophet. “Your telegrams. The messages from your double life. I do.” “But I assure you--” “Mr. Vivian, it’s useless really. I find you hidden away in the inner room of Jellybrand’s with Mr. Sagittarius, closely guarded by Frederick Smith; fourpenny champagne--” “Four bob--shilling, I mean.”