“Four bob—shilling, I mean.”
“Oh, was it?—Upon the table. After I’ve been poisoned, and we are leaving, Mr. Sagittarius calls after you such expressions as ‘Banks of the Mouse—hear from me—marrow—architects and the last day.’ You are obviously agitated by these expressions. We reach your house. I find you have been prophesying through a telescope. The name of Malkiel—a well-known prophet—is mentioned. You turn pale and glance at me imploringly, as if to solicit my silence. I am silent. The next day you announce that you are going to have two afternoon parties.”
“No, no, not afternoon! I never said afternoon!” interposed the Prophet, frantically, as the horse fell down again in order to earn the extra sixpence.
“Well, two parties in the afternoon. It’s the same thing. You say they are odd. You yourself acknowledge it. You tell me you have secrets.”
“Did I?”
“Yes. When I said I had guessed your secret you replied, ‘Which one?’”
“Oh!” murmured the Prophet, trying not to say “come in!” to the horse, which was again knocking with both feet upon the front of the cab.
“You go home. I call during the afternoon, and find that you are entertaining all your guests in your own little room and that your grandmother knows nothing of it and believes you to be working. As I am leaving I see the backs of two of your guests. One is a pelisse, the other a spotted collar. As I near them they mount into a purple omnibus on which is printed in huge letters, ‘To the “Pork Butcher’s Rest’’—”
“No! No!” ejaculated the Prophet, pale with horror at this revelation.
“Rest, Crampton Vale, N. I lose them in the shadows. The next day I call and find your grandmother is dying from the noise made by boys bringing you private telegrams. And then you tell me, me—Minerva Partridge—that you have no double life! Yes, you can let him get up now, please.”