“Why,” cried the Prophet, “why?”
He sought frantically for some excuse. Suddenly a bright idea occurred to him.
“Why,” he said, impressively. “Because Sir Tiglath Butt, the gentleman who is coming to dinner, is the person who for five-and-forty years has been seeking Mr. Sagittarius with the firm intention of assaulting, perhaps of killing, him.”
Mr. Sagittarius turned deathly pale, and made a movement as if to get out of the nearest window.
“This is a trap!” he stammered. “This is a rat-trap. This was planned.”
“Really”—began the Prophet.
But Mr. Sagittarius did not heed the exclamation. Trembling very violently, he continued,—
“Sophy, my darling, you are in danger. Let us fly!”
And, clutching his wife by the arm, to the Prophet’s unspeakable delight he endeavoured to lead, or rather to drag her to the door. But Madame now showed the metal she was made of.
“Jupiter,” she exclaimed, in her deepest note, “if you are a Prophet you can surely at moments be also a man. Where is your toga virilibus?”