“You couldn’t get a passport,” said Mr. Darnby Frere, who was the only person present really conscious of sanity.  “Only a miracle could produce a passport in these days, especially for a fugitive from justice.”

“Only a miracle—­or magic,” said Sarah Brown.

Miss Ford moved instinctively behind the counter towards the open drawer full of ingredients for happiness.

“We must remember,” added Mr. Frere, “that, after all, she did break the law.  In fact I cannot for the life of me imagine why on earth we are all—­”

“Oh, Darnby, do be sensible,” said Miss Ford.  “Of course we know it is wrong to break the law, but in this case—­well, I myself should be the last to blame her.”

“No, not the last,” said Sarah Brown.

“What do you mean?”

“Certainly not the last.  Probably not even the penultimate one.  You flatter yourself.”

“Why, surely some of you ladies, movin’ in the ’ighest circles, knows of gentlemen in the Foreign Office that would do a little shut-eye job, for old times’ sake,” suggested the Mayor.

This was a challenge to Miss Ford.  She ceased to gaze haughtily on Sarah Brown.  “Men from three departments of the Foreign Office are fairly regular Wednesday friends of mine,” she said.  “But I could hardly trouble any of them on—­er—­so trivial a matter.”

There was silence, while Miss Ford toyed gingerly with one of the paper packets out of the witch’s drawer.  Presently she said:  “What about Richard?”

Lady Arabel showed sudden irritation.  “There you go again, Meta; I have spoken to you of it again and again.  It’s Rrchud this and Rrchud that whenever anything in the least tahsome or out of the way happens.  One would think you considered the poor boy a wizard.”

“You needn’t lose your temper, Arabel,” said Miss Ford coldly.  “I only meant that Richard might be useful, having so many friends, and such skill in ... chemistry....”  As if unconsciously she tore off one corner of the packet of magic she held before adding:  “And besides, as I have often told you, I believe Richard to have real Occult Power, which would give him a special interest in this case.”

Sarah Brown, who was burying her face in her hands and missing much of the conversation, caught the name of Richard, and said:  “Richard has gone to his True Love.”

A tempest of restrained embarrassment arose.

“She’s feverish,” murmured Miss Ford, turning scarlet.

“My dear Sarah,” said Lady Arabel tartly.  “You are quite mistaken, and I must beg of you to be careful how you repeat idle gossip about my son.  Rrchud is at his office.  You know it is only open at night—­one of Rrchud’s quaint fancies.”

“I will ring up his office,” said Miss Ford, deciding to ignore Sarah Brown both now and in future.  “Where is the telephone?”

“There is none,” replied Sarah Brown.  “This is the House of Living Alone.”