The Prophet’s blood ran cold in the cab, as he began, for the first time, to see clearly into the elaborate mind of Miss Minerva, into the curiously deliberate complications of a definite and determined folly.  He perceived the danger that threatened the prophet who dwelt beside the Mouse, but he had recovered himself by this time sufficiently to meet craft with craft.  And he therefore answered carelessly,—­

“Yes, it is lucky that Malkiel’s a syndicate.”

When they reached Hill street Lady Enid said,—­

“I’m so much obliged to you, Mr. Vivian, for all you’ve done for Miss Minerva.”

“Not at all.”

“The next step is to introduce you to Mrs. Bridgeman, and you can introduce her to Mr. Sagittarius.  Then I’ll introduce Sir Tiglath to her and she will introduce Mr. Sagittarius to him.  It all works out so beautifully!  Thank you a thousand times.  You’ll hear from me.  Probably I’ll give you your directions how to act to-morrow.  Good-night.”

The Prophet drove on to Berkeley Square, feeling that, between Mr. and Madame Sagittarius and Miss Minerva, he was being rapidly directed to his doom.

CHAPTER XIII

THE PROPHET IS INTERVIEWED BY TWO KIDS

Mr. Ferdinand met the Prophet in the hall.

“I have done as you directed, sir,” he said respectfully.

“As I directed, Mr. Ferdinand?  I was not aware that I ever directed anybody,” replied the Prophet, suspecting irony.

“I understood you to say, sir, that if any more telegrams was to arrive, I was to burn them, sir.”

“Telegrams!  Good Heavens!  You don’t mean to say that—­”

“There has been some seventeen or eighteen, sir.  I have burnt them, sir, to ashes, according to your orders.”

“Quite right, Mr. Ferdinand,” said the Prophet, putting his hand up to his hair, to feel if it were turning grey.  “Quite right.  How is—­how, I say, is Mrs. Merillia?”

“Well, Master Hennessey, she’s not dead yet.”

And Mr. Ferdinand, with a contorted countenance moved towards the servants’ hall.

The Prophet stood quite still with his hat and coat on for several minutes.  An amazing self-possession had come to him, the unnatural self-possession of despair.  He felt quite calm, as the statue of a dead alderman feels on the embankment of its native city.  Nothing seemed to matter at all.  He might have been Marcus Aurelius—­till a loud double knock came to the front door.  Then he might have been any dangerous lunatic, ripe for a strait waistcoat.  Mr. Ferdinand approached.  The Prophet faced him.

“Kindly retire, Mr. Ferdinand,” he said in a very quiet voice.  “I will answer that knock.”

Mr. Ferdinand retired rather rapidly.  The knock was repeated.  The Prophet opened the door.  A telegraph boy, about two and a half feet high, stood outside upon the step.