“The police!” cried the Prophet. “Why?”
“I believe it’s Mrs. Fancy’s doing, sir. If you would go to Mrs. Merillia, sir, I think—”
The Prophet rushed from the room and hastened upstairs four steps at a time. He found his beloved grandmother in a state of grave agitation, and Mrs. Fancy, in floods of tears, reiterating her statement that there were robbers in the house.
“Oh, Hennessey!” cried Mrs. Merillia, on his entrance, “thank God that you are come. There are burglars in the house. Fancy has just encountered them in the hall. Go for the police, my dearest boy. Don’t lose a moment.”
“My dear grannie, they’re not burglars.”
“I can’t speak different, Master Hennessey, nor—”
“Then who are they, Hennessey? Fancy declares—”
“They are two—two—well, two old and valued friends of mine.”
“Old and valued friends of ours!”
“Of mine, grannie. Fancy, pray don’t make such a noise!”