“The butler’s pantry, sir!” exclaimed Mr. Sagittarius.  “Explain yourself, I beg.”

“The telescope is there, and—­”

“I have passed beyond the reach of etiquette,” said Madame, looking considerably like Joan of Arc and other well-known heroines.  “My duty lies plain before me.  Of myself I should not have selected the Zoological Gardens and the butler’s pantry of a comparative stranger as places in which to pass the night, even when accompanied by my husband.  But my conscience—­mens conscium recto—­guides me and I will not resist it.  I will assume my neglige and bonnet and will be with you in a moment.”

So saying she majestically quitted the apartment.

The Prophet fell down upon the maroon sofa like a man smitten with paralysis.  He felt suddenly old, and very weak.  He tried to think, to consider how he could explain Madame Sagittarius to his grandmother—­for she must surely now become aware of the presence of strangers in her pretty home—­how he could arrange matters with Mr. Ferdinand, how he could apologise to a lady whom he had never yet seen for appearing at her house with two uninvited guests, how he could get rid of the Sagittariuses when the horrible night watch should be at an end and the frigid winter dawn be near.  But his mind refused to work.  His brain was a blank, containing nothing except, perhaps, a vague desire for sudden death.  Mr. Sagittarius did not disturb his contemplation of the inevitable.  Indeed, that gentleman also seemed meditative, and the silence lasted until the reappearance of Madame, in a brown robe—­of a slightly tea-gown type—­trimmed with green chiffon and coffee-coloured lace, a black bonnet adorned with about a score of imitation plums made in some highly-glazed material, a heavy cloak lined with priceless rabbit-skins, and the outdoor boots.

If the Prophet had found the journey to the Mouse a painful experience, what can be said of his feelings during the journey from that noble stream?  Long afterwards he recalled his state of mind during the tramp across the Common among the broken crockery, the dust-heaps, the decaying vegetables and the occasional lurking rats, the journey in the train, the reembarkment upon the purple ’bus from the gentle eminence sloping towards the coal-yard, the long pilgrimage towards the central districts with his very outlying companions.  He recalled the peculiar numbness that strove against the desperation of his thoughts, his feeble efforts to lay plans frustrated by a perpetual buzzing in his brain, his flitting visions of that gentle grandmother round whose venerable age and dignity he was about to group such peculiar personalities, and beneath whose roof he was about to indulge in such unholy prophetic practices.  Long afterwards—­but even then he could not smile as men so often smile when they look back on lost despairs!

He and his companions spoke but little together as they journeyed.  Occasionally Madame and Mr. Sagittarius conversed in husky whispers, like brigands the Prophet thought, and the veiled click of Madame’s contralto struck through the startled air.  But mostly a silence prevailed—­a silence alive with fate.