“Yes.  But now, if he could be made to think that I really am what I look like—­a thoroughly sensible young woman, he would more than admire me, he would adore me.”

“But if you wish him to?” asked the Prophet in blank amazement.

“I do.”

“Why?”

“The Miss Minerva part of me desires it.”

“Indeed.”

“Yes.  He’s got to do one or two things for Miss Minerva without knowing that I’m Miss Minerva.  That is why I bolted into the parlour yesterday.  Just as I was stepping into Jellybrand’s I happened to see Sir Tiglath and he happened to think he saw me.”

“Only to think?”

“Yes.  He is not certain.  I saw that by the expression of his face.  He was wondering whether I was me—­or is it I?—­or not.  I didn’t give him time to be certain.  I rushed into the parlour.”

“You did.”

“So it’s all right.  Frederick Smith would never betray a client.”

“Really?”

“Never; so I’m saved.  For Sir Tiglath isn’t certain even now.  I found that out on the way home with him last night.  And an old man who’s uncertain of the truth can soon be made certain of the lie, by a young woman he admires, however sensible he is.  And now I’ll tell you part of what I want Sir Tiglath to do for Miss Minerva—­”

But at this moment the clock struck five, and the Prophet bounded up with hysterical activity, and hastily took his leave, promising to call again and hear more on the following day.

“And tell more,” thought Lady Enid to herself as the door of the sensible-looking boudoir shut behind him.

CHAPTER VIII

THE PROPHET RECEIVES HIS DIRECTIONS FROM MADAME

When the Prophet reached his door he rang the bell with a rather faltering hand.  Mr. Ferdinand appeared.

“Any one called, Mr. Ferdinand?” asked the Prophet with an attempt at airy gaiety.

“Yes, sir,” replied Mr. Ferdinand, looking rather like an elderly maiden lady when she unexpectedly encounters her cook taking an airing with a corporal in the Life Guards, “the pair of persons you expected, sir, has come.”

The Prophet blushed.

“Oh!  You—­you haven’t disturbed Mrs. Merillia with them, I hope,” he rejoined.

“No, sir, indeed.  Gustavus said your orders was that they was to be shown quietly to the library.”

“Exactly.”

“I begged them to walk a-tiptoe, sir.”

“What?” ejaculated the Prophet.

“I informed them there was illness in the house, sir.”

“And did they—­er—?”

“The male person got on his toes at once, sir, but the female person shrieks out, ‘Is it catching?  Ho!  Think of—­of Capericornopus,’ sir, or something to that effect.”

“Tch!  Tch!”

“I took the liberty to say, sir, that ankles was not catching, and that I would certainly think of Capericornopus if she would but walk a-tiptoe.”