“What do you mean?  Ah, Mr. Green, how d’you do?  See my news!”

“Yes, written up on the front door.  Everyone’s shocked.”

“Rather!” said Mr. Green, gazing at Mrs. Merillia with confused mournfulness.  “One doesn’t see death on a front door every day, don’t you know, in big round hand too, and then one of those modern words.”

“Death on the front door in big round hand!” said Mrs. Merillia in the greatest perplexity.

“I put it there, grannie,” said the Prophet, humbly.  “I wrote that if another boy knocked, death would certainly ensue.”

“Ensue.  That’s it.  I knew it was one of those modern words,” said Mr. Green.

“Another boy?” said Lady Enid.  “Why should another boy knock?”

“Hennessey receives about nine telegrams an hour,” answered Mrs. Merillia.

“Really!”

Lady Enid looked at him with keen interest, while Mrs. Merillia continued,—­

“You had better take death off the door now, Mr. Ferdinand.  I feel more myself.  Please thank her ladyship and tell her so.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Nine telegrams an hour!” repeated Lady Enid.  “Mr. Vivian, would you mind just seeing me as far as Hill Street?  Bob has to go to Tattersall’s.”

“Have I, Niddy?” asked Mr. Green, with evident surprise.

“Yes, to pick up a polo pony.  Don’t you recollect?”

“A polo pony, was it?  By Jove!”

“I will come with pleasure,” said the poor Prophet, who felt fit only to lie down quietly in his grave.  “If you don’t mind being left, grannie?”

Mrs. Merillia was looking pleased.

“No, no.  Go with Lady Enid, my dear boy.  If any telegrams come shall I open—­”

“No,” cried the Prophet, with sudden fierce energy.  “For mercy’s sake—­I mean, grannie, dear; that none will come.  If they should”—­his ordinary gentle eyes flamed almost furiously—­“Mr. Ferdinand is to burn them unread—­yes, to ashes.  I will tell him.”  And he escorted Lady Enid tumultuously downstairs, missing his footing at every second step.

In the square they parted from Mr. Green, who said,—­

“Good-bye, Niddy, old girl.  What do I want to pick up at Tattersall’s?”

“A polo pony, Bob,” she answered firmly.

“Oh, a polo pony.  Thanks, Chin, chin, Hen.  Polo pony is it?”

He strode off, whistling “She wore a wreath of roses” in a puzzled manner, but still preserving the accepted demeanour of a bulwark.

As soon as Mr. Green was out of sight Lady Enid said,—­

“We aren’t going to Hill Street.”

“Aren’t we?” replied the Prophet, feebly.

“No.  I must see Sir Tiglath Butt to-day.  I want you to take me to his door.”

“Where is his door?”

“In Kensington Square.  Do you mind hailing a four-wheeler.  We can talk privately there.  No one will hear us.”

The Prophet hailed a growler, wondering whether they would be able to hear each other.  As they got in Lady Enid, after giving the direction, said to the cabman, who was a short person, with curling ebon whiskers, a broken-up expression and a broken-down manner: