her back and the rabbit-skins flowing from her ample shoulders.  Immediately behind her ran her spouse, holding in one hand a silver pepper castor, and in the other a small and very beautifully finished bronze teapot of the William of Orange period.  The worthy couple fleeted by, and the Prophet turned his expressionless eyes towards the swing door expecting immediately to perceive Sir Tiglath Butt in valiant pursuit.  As no such figure presented itself, and as the Malkiels were now beginning to mount the stairs with continually increasing velocity, the Prophet slowly uncrossed his legs, and was thinking of getting upon his feet when there came a loud knock upon the hall door.

“Gustavus!” said the Prophet, glancing round.

He perceived the footman lying in a dead faint near the umbrella stand.

“Oh!” he said, speaking to himself aloud.  “Oh!  Then I must go myself.”

Acting upon his conception of his duty, he accordingly walked to the front door, opened it, and found the policeman outside supporting the senseless form of Sir Tiglath Butt in one hand and holding a broken truncheon in the other.

“Well?” said the Prophet, calmly.  “Well?”

“I knocked him down as he was making a bolt,” said the policeman.

The Prophet found himself wondering why so industrious and even useful an occupation should be interfered with in such a manner.  However, he only replied,—­

“Indeed!”

“Ah,” said the policeman, stepping into the hall and laying the astronomer out across a chair, “what’s up?”

“They are both up,” answered the Prophet, pointing with a lethargic finger towards the staircase, from which, at this moment, arose a perfect hubbub of voices.

“Come on!” cried the policeman.

“Why?” asked the Prophet.

“Why! you’re a nice un, you are!  Why!  And nab ’em, of course!”

“You think it would be wise to—­what was the word—­nab them?” inquired the Prophet.  “You really think so?”

“Well, what am I here for then?” said the policeman, with angry irony.

“Oh, if you prefer,” rejoined the Prophet, civilly.  “Nab them by all means.  I shall not prevent you.”

The policeman, who was an active and industrious fellow deserving of praise, waited for no further permission, but immediately darted up the stairs, and in less than a minute returned with Mrs. Merillia—­attired in a black silk gown, a bonnet, and an Indian shawl presented to her on her marriage by a very great personage—­in close custody.

“Here’s one of ’em!” he shouted.  “Here, you lay hold of her while I fetch the rest!”

And with these words he thrust the Prophet’s grandmother into one of his hands, the broken truncheon into the other, and turning smartly round, again bounded up the stairs.