“One moment, sir!”

“Not one,” retorted the Prophet, firmly.  “Not one till this lady has had an antidote.”

He walked on with determination.  Supporting the lady.  But ere he got quite out of earshot he caught these fragments of a shattered speech, hurtling through the symphony of London noises:—­

“Banks of the Mouse—­Madame—­sake of Capricor—­be sure I—­probe—­quick—­search—­the very core—­hear from me—­architects—­marrow—­almanac—­the last day—­the Berkeley square—­”

The final ejaculation melted away into the somewhat powerful discord produced by the impact of a brewer’s dray with a runaway omnibus at the corner of Greek Street, which was eventually resolved by the bursting of a motor car—­containing two bookmakers and an acting manager—­which mingled with them at the rate of perhaps forty miles an hour.

“Yes, please, a hansom,” said Lady Enid Thistle, some five minutes later, as she and the Prophet stood together upon the kerb in front of the rabbit shop.  “I feel much better now.”

The Prophet hailed a hansom and handed her into it.

“Which way are you going?” he asked.

Lady Enid looked doubtful.

“I ought to be going back to Jellybrand’s,” she said.  “I had an appointment.  But really—­you see Mr. Sagittarius is there, and altogether—­I don’t know.”

She was obviously still upset by the “creaming foam,” and the other incidents of the afternoon.

“Come to tea with grannie,” said the Prophet.

“She’s at home?”

“Yes.  She’s twisted her ankle.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“Let me escort you.”

“Thanks.  I think I will.”

“You won’t mind stopping for a moment at Hollings’s?” said the Prophet, in Piccadilly Circus.  “I promised to buy some roses.  Somebody is coming in to tea.”

“On, no.  But who is it?”

“I don’t know.  Only one person, I think.  An old friend, no doubt.  Probably the Central American Ambassador’s grandfather.”

“Oh, if that’s all!  I feel a little shaky still.”

“Naturally.”

The Prophet bought the roses and they drove on.

“It’s very nice of you not to ask any questions,” observed Lady Enid, presently.

The Prophet had been thinking it was, but he only said,—­

“Oh, not at all.”

“I’m a woman,” promised Lady Enid, “and I don’t know whether I can be so nice.”

The Prophet glanced at her and met her curious grey eyes.

“Try—­please,” he replied very gently, thinking of the oath which he had just taken.

Lady Enid was silent for two minutes, then she remarked,—­

“I have tried, but I can’t succeed.  Why on earth were you closeted in the parlour—­at my time, too—­with Mr. Sagittarius this afternoon?”

“Then you really are Miss Minerva Partridge?  And it was really you who had—­had—­well, ‘bespoke’ the parlour at half-past three?”