“Bob, I must beg you to take it from me. He had. Now which promise should he keep?”
“Who’d he made ‘em to?”
“Who?” said the Prophet, wavering.
“Yes.”
“One to—to a very near and dear relative, the other to—well, Bob to two comparative strangers.”
“What sort of strangers.”
“The sort of strangers who—who live beside a river, and who—who mix principally with—well, in fact, with architects and their wives.”
“Rum sort of strangers?”
“They are decidedly.”
“Oh, then, you know ‘em?”