“Ha!” cried the old man; “I have foreclosed on these busybodies.”
Then he rose to his feet, leaving the patient yawning and stretching on the floor.
“Fearful!” gasped the clergyman.
“Do you address me, sir?” asked the old man, scowling.
“Conjurer!” whispered Mr. Prior.
“If you like,” snarled the other. “It is a common enough trick with these Yogis, but one I had never seen until he came my way and offered to show it me for a consideration. I had forgot he was still lying there when I agreed to exchange livings with you. (You are Mr. Prior, I presume?) It was the merest oversight, which I remembered on my way, and came back by an early train to rectify—none too soon, it seems, for the staying of meddlesome fingers.”
“Forgot he was there!” cried Mr. Prior.
“And what if I did, sir?” snapped the other. “It was a full week he had lain tranced; and let me tell you, sir, I have more things to think of in a week than your mind could accommodate in a century. Why,” he cried, in sudden enlightenment, “I do believe the fools imagined I had murdered the man.”
“Look at the babies in the bottles!” cried Mrs. Gaunt hysterically.
“As to you, you old ass,” shouted the Vicar, flouncing round, “if you can’t distinguish embryo simiadæ from babies, you’d better call yourself Miss, as I believe you are!”