“Well, and—”
“By hook and cook I got them to the library, sir. But the male person’s boots creaked awful. The getting on his toes, sir seemed to induce it, as you might say.”
“Yes, yes. So they’re in the library?”
“They are, sir, and have been talking incessant, sir, ever since they was put there. We can hear their voices in our hall, sir.”
Mr. Ferdinand again pursed his lips and looked like an elderly lady. The Prophet could no longer meet his eye.
“Bring some tea, Mr. Ferdinand, quietly to the library. And—and if Mrs. Merillia should ask for me say I’m—say I’m busy—er—writing.”
Mr. Ferdinand moved a step backward.
“Master Hennessey!” he cried in a choked voice. “I, a London butler, and you ask me to—!”
“No, no. I beg your pardon, Mr. Ferdinand. Simply say I’m busy. That will be quite true. I shall be—very busy.”
“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Ferdinand with a stern and at length successful effort to conquer his outraged feelings.