Thus did Mr. Robert Green drive the Prophet to take the first decisive step that was to lead to so many complications,—­the step towards Mr. Ferdinand’s pantry.

At precisely a quarter to eleven p.m. the Prophet stood upon his doorstep and, very gently indeed, inserted his latchkey into the door.  A shaded lamp was burning in the deserted hall, where profound silence reigned.  Clear was the night and starry.  As the Prophet turned to close the door he perceived the busy crab, and the thought of his beloved grandmother, sinking now to rest on the second floor all unconscious of the propinquity of the scorpion, the contiguity of the serpent, filled his expressive eyes with tears.  He shut the door, stood in the hall and listened.  He heard a chair crack, the ticking of a clock.  There was no other sound, and he felt certain that Mr. Ferdinand and Gustavus had heeded his anxious medical directions and gone entirely to bed betimes, leaving the butler’s pantry free for the nocturnal operations of the victim of Madame.  For he recognised that she was the guiding spirit of the family that dwelt beside the Mouse.  He might have escaped out of the snare of Mr. Sagittarius, but Madame was a fowler who would hold him fast till she had satisfied herself once and for all whether it were indeed possible to dwell in the central districts, within reach of the Army and Navy heaven in Victoria Street, and yet remain a prophet.  Yes, he must now work for the information of her ambitious soul.  He sighed deeply and went softly up the stairs.  His chamber was on the same floor as Mrs. Merillia’s, and, as he neared her door, he rose instinctively upon his toes and, grasping the tails of his evening coat firmly with his left hand, to prevent any chance rustling of their satin lining, and bearing his George the Third silver candlestick steadily to control any clattering of its extinguisher, he moved on rather like a thief who was also a trained ballerina, holding his breath and pressing his lips together in a supreme agony of dumbness.

Unluckily he tripped in the raised pattern of the carpet, the candlestick uttered a silver note, his pent-in breath escaped with a loud gulp, and Mrs. Merillia’s delicate voice cried out from behind her shut door,—­

“Hennessey!  Hennessey!”

The Prophet bit his lip and went at once into her room.

Mrs. Merillia looked simply charming in bed, with her long and elegant head shaded by a beautiful muslin helmet trimmed with lace, and a delicious embroidered wrapper round her shoulders.  The Prophet stood beside her, shading the candle-flame with his hand.

“Well, grannie, dear,” he said, “what is it?  You ought to be asleep.”

“I never sleep before twelve.  Have you had a pleasant dinner?”

“Very.  Stanyer Phelps, the American, was there and very witty.  And we had a marvellous supreme de volaille.  Everybody asked after you.”

Mrs. Merillia nodded, like an accustomed queen who receives her due.  She knew very well that she was the most popular old woman in London, knew it too well to think about it.