“I hope not, grannie,” said the Prophet.  But he looked meditative.

Mr. Ferdinand brought the toast and water, the sandwich and the fan.  When he had trodden across the carpet out of the room Mrs. Merillia continued,—­

“Hennessey, you see where this prophetic business is leadin’ you.  It has made you charmed at my accident.  Yes, it has.”

She spoke without any pathos, humorously indeed, in a bright tone full of common sense.  And she nodded at him over her toast and water with a chaffing, demure smile.  But the Prophet winced and put his hand to his thick brown hair.

“No, no,” he cried quickly.  “That’s impossible.  It can’t be.”  But the statements sounded like perturbed questions.

“Think!” said his grandmother, looking down at her poor, helpless foot as it lay on the velvet stool.  “If I hadn’t had an accident to-night, you’d have been obliged to think ill of—­of—­which of them was it that had the impertinence to talk my affairs over with you?”

“Mercury and Uranus, Jupiter, Saturn and Venus,” said the Prophet with almost terrible gravity.

“Exactly.  I always have thought ill of the last, but that’s nothin’ to do with it.  Weigh me in the balance against five planets—­are they all planets?—­and how do the scales go?  You see, Hennessey!”

The Prophet looked much distressed.  He saw his beloved grandmother by the fire and the bright stars twinkling through the frosty window-panes.  He thought of his telescope, of Sir Tiglath, of Mr. Malkiel, and of the future, and the velvety blue walls of the drawing-room seemed to spin round him.

“Prophecy,” continued Mrs. Merillia, fanning herself till the lace lappets of her priceless cap fluttered above her orderly and clasping wig, “is dangerous, for often it can cause its own fulfilment.  If you hadn’t said that because of a certain conjunction of planets—­or whatever it was—­in my horoscope, I should have an accident to-night, I shouldn’t have jumped out of the brougham.  I should have waited for Mr. Ferdinand to assist me, as befits a gentlewoman.”

“But, grannie, I assure you I was most anxious to save you.  I hoped I had made a mistake in your horoscope.  I did, really.  I was so nervous that I sent to Mr. Malkiel while you were at the theatre and implored him to look into the matter as an expert.”

“Mr. Malkiel!  Who is he?  Do we know him?”

“No.  But we know his marvellous Almanac.”

“The Almanac person!  Why, Malkiel is surely a myth, Hennessey, a number of people, a company, a syndicate, or something of that kind.”

“So I thought, grannie.  But I have made inquiries—­through a detective agency—­and I have discovered that he is one person; in fact, a man, just like you and me.”

“Rather an odd man then!  Is he in the Red Book?”

“No.  He is, I understand, of a very retiring and secretive disposition.  In fact, I have had great difficulty in learning anything about him.  But at length I have discovered that he receives and answers letters at an address in London.”